Sunshine and Rain
by PoisonousTiger
Summary: It's finally Arthur's turn to host the World Conference, and for once, it's in his beloved London. He gets some house-crashers as a result, but they bring along a surprise he never would have imagined. UK X Nyotalia!US a.k.a. Fem!US. Some RusXfem!Ame too, along with other pairings too spoiler-ish to reveal in this summary. Romance, drama, and lots of fluff and squee. Slight AU.
1. Nations Make Strange Bedfellows

**Ch. 1: Nations Make Strange Bedfellows**

Arthur pretended to be sleeping. It was better that way. Maybe then his former "brothers" might quiet down. Arthur tried to remember if the contractor he'd hired had finished converting the den into a guest room, then worried what those "brothers" might do to any couches they found. Alfred always managed to break things, and Matthew was just plain clumsy (although he did always apologize for his accidents and pay for them, unlike Alfred).

The downside of hosting the World Conference this year in London was that those two North American brothers thought it was all right to use their former "family connection" and crash at his place instead of getting a hotel. Arthur sighed.

Yes, Alfred was getting over an economic recession, and Arthur had taught them both to be frugal. So how could he complain that they were finally using his advice? Something crashed and clattered downstairs, and Arthur cringed.

"_**Please**_ don't let that be an antique," he quietly said. He heard the doorknob turn and the door click open. He hadn't locked it on purpose because he knew if Alfred tried hard enough, he could break the entire door off its hinges. Arthur knew they always neglected to knock before entering (yes, even Canada forgot sometimes), so if Alfred was leading the way, why damage a good door?

"Arthur? Can I sleep with you?" a voice whispered.

Arthur held his breath and shut his eyes tightly. He hoped that the curtains around the bed would block out any noise. Silence echoed through the room.

"Arthur, I know you're awake," the voice whispered again. "I saw your light on just a couple minutes ago."

_Damn American novelists! _Arthur cursed silently. The latest fiction from the States about a post-apocalyptic world had been too engrossing tonight, and he had forgotten to listen for his "guests". He had hoped to have turned out the lamp in time, but apparently, he wasn't fast enough. "Why can't you sleep in the lounge or the den? I asked that the den be turned into a guest room."

"Um . . . I would if I could," the voice whispered, "but they're both . . . um . . . occupied."

Arthur blinked up at the darkness. _How many people came in? _He counted off in his mind all the so-called "family" who would dare to use his house for a place to stay: America, Canada, Sealand—_no wait, Sealand has recently been adopted into another family; he'd never come here_—there's Australia, New Zealand, and Seychelles—_no, she hates me_—and it wouldn't make sense for the other two since they rarely attended the World Conference. Australia and NeZee usually let Arthur represent them.

_So how could one of the brothers take up both of the rooms unless more than just the two nations came in? _Arthur wondered. _And if it's only those two: Which of them was so selfish? Which was cheeky enough to dare disturb me? _He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. He was too tired to worry about silly brothers who didn't know how to share.

"There's a chair and some blankets over by the fireplace," he said finally.

The person at the door rustled in and stumbled over to the fireplace.

Arthur sat up and peeked out of the heavy curtains hanging from his four-poster bed. He thought he could make out a figure in a bomber jacket. _So it's Alfred, _he thought, releasing the curtain and lying back down on his bed. _Odd. Matthew doesn't come off as the type to bully Alfred into resorting to sleeping elsewhere._

"Alfred, try not to break anything," Arthur said, rolling over onto his side, closing his eyes, and snuggling into his pillow.

Silence answered.

Arthur opened his eyes, raised his head, and looked at the spot where the younger nation would be through the curtains. "Alfred?"

"Sorry," America finally answered in a pained whisper. Arthur could hear the nation straining to get out the words. "Hit my shin on something. That's going to bruise."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. _Bruise? Alfred? From a little bump? Impossible. _

America made some more rustling sounds. "Um. This chair isn't Busby's Chair, is it?" a whisper came from across the room.

"Don't be a prat, Alfred," Arthur said, plopping his head back down on the pillow and closing his eyes again, "That's in Thirsk Museum*, not here." He heard clothes rustle and flop onto something, and then the chair squeaked to protest its new occupant. "_Please_ tell me you left some clothes on before you sat in my chair," he groaned.

America chuckled. "Yeah, of course. Don't be silly," came another whisper. "I'm wearing my traveling sleepwear: an oversize T-shirt and boxers."

Arthur opened his eyes and furrowed his brow. _Why is Alfred whispering? _Arthur wondered,. He had been speaking in his normal voice this whole time._ Didn't he pick up on the cues that it's all right to speak normally? __Something is definitely odd here._

"America, do you still have a cold?" Arthur asked.

"Not really. Why?"

"You haven't raised your voice since you came in," Arthur pointed out.

Silence. Another chuckle. "Gee. I guess I just got in the habit," came the whisper.

Arthur smirked into the darkness. _Loud-mouth Alfred? In the habit of whispering_? He laughed at the notion. Everyone knew Alfred was incapable of keeping quiet more than 2 minutes max. He got comfortable again and started to drift off to sleep.

America shifted on the chair, and it groaned at the movement. "Arthur?" came the whisper again.

Arthur ignored the whispering nation.

"Are you asleep?" America asked in a hushed voice.

"Not with you waking me up every 5 seconds," Arthur said; he was starting to get seriously irritated and a little bit creeped-out by America's continued whispering. "Go to sleep, you git."

"Can I sleep on your bed?" the whisperer asked. "This chair is uncomfortable, and I bruise easily."

_That's the stupidest excuse I have ever heard_. "No, you may not," Arthur said finally, glaring at the other nation through the bed's curtians. "Go to sleep."

"Please? I'll sleep on top of the covers if you don't want to share," came a quiet plea. "It'll be like when I was younger."

A wave of nostalgia made Arthur unable to remember that this was the nation who was capable of crushing him if said nation hugged him in his sleep. "All right," Arthur said, tears tingeing his eyes. "But don't touch me or crawl under the covers, or I'll make you regret it." He closed his eyes and quickly wiped away the tears that had leaked out, and then pulled the covers around himself to keep Alfred from taking them.

There was a pattering of bare feet across the wood floor and then a hesitant pulling aside of the poster-bed's curtains. The large bed squeaked as the other nation crawled onto the side not occupied by him.

"Thanks," America whispered. Arthur heard the other nation pull a blanket onto the bed (obviously dragged over from the chair) and clumsily try to wrap it around himself for warmth. "You won't regret it."

"Hopefully, I won't," Arthur replied. He opened his eyes again and listened to the other nation struggle to get comfortable. It still struck Arthur as a little odd that America would mention his childhood so eagerly. After all, current "special relationship" aside, it was Alfred who originally cast him and all "brotherly ties" off for his blasted "independence".

Arthur heard Alfred plop onto the bed's other pillow and finally settle down. He rolled over to face the side America was on and stared at the blanket cocoon lying next to him. _If he really does have a cold, I'll kill him, _he thought.

Arthur concluded that even if Alfred was the one who brought up their past, it was probably was just a ploy to get a more comfortable sleeping arrangement. He could hear the other nation start snoring quietly. He turned to face away from the sleeping nation and snuggled into his pillow.

Warmth radiated from the other nation even though America wasn't anywhere near him, and it started to lull Arthur to sleep. _I hope he's back to his obnoxiously loud self tomorrow,_ he thought as his eyelids grew heavy and then sleep found him.

Sunlight poured through a crack in the curtains on the poster-bed. America had neglected to pull them all the way shut. Arthur rubbed his eyes and turned with a yawn towards the side of the bed that America was sleeping on.

A mess of blond hair next to him poked out from under the covers.

_Wait. Under the covers? _"Bloody git! I told you not to crawl under my covers," Arthur scolded, hitting the top of the blond head with his fist.

The hair scooted under the blankets, and he heard a muffled "Five more minutes, Bro".

"Get up, you plonker," Arthur said, elbowing America. His elbow squished against the other nation's cheek. "You broke your promise."

"Sorry," came the muffled voice under the blanket. "It got cold." America stretched out under the covers, shifted closer to Arthur, and clasped his arm before he had time to react. "And you're s-o-o-o warm, I just couldn't resist."

"Let go," Arthur protested. He knew he'd never be able to pull the other nation off. Once America decided to hug you, you had to endure it until he was done, even if he was crushing you.

The slender arms that encompassed Arthur's arm pulled him closer into softness. "Let me stay like this a little longer," the voice under the covers said.

Arthur froze. _Wait a minute. This voice. Slender arms? Softness? Why does this softness feel like . . . _

Arthur reached over with his free hand and flung back the covers. He stared at the other person in his bed. For a moment, he wondered if America had shrunk due to some curse or spell_. _The person lying next to him was definitely shorter than he was. The other nation's hair was shoulder length and had—what did France call them?—highlights.

Arthur looked down at his captive arm._ I was right_._ Those are definitely breasts squishing up against . . . my . . . arm._ He sat up and moved slightly away from her, his cheeks burning.

The young woman's arms slid down his arm until his wrist was embraced by her arms and breasts. She shifted, reached up with one hand and rubbed her closed lids, and then beautiful, blue-gray eyes looked up at Arthur.

"Good Morning, Handsome," she said, smiling and winking.

Arthur gawked at the woman in his bed. "_Who_ the **hell** are you?"

* * *

**A/N**

***Thirsk Museum in Thirsk, North Yorkshire is the current residence of the Busby Stoop Chair. You can't sit in it anymore since the owner asked that it be hung on the wall out of harm's way.**

**Arthur's Slang:**

**There appears to be a lot of ways for a British person to call someone an "idiot", each with its own definition and degree of seriousness; these are just two of them:**

**prat = inept, annoying, foolish person**

**git = foolish or worthless person. This is technically an insult, but it often has a twinge of jealousy to it. In some parts of the UK, this word also means "not a very nice person", but it is a friendly insult, not meant to hurt anyone's feelings.**

**plonker = a stupid or inept person, someone prone to making mistakes frequently**

Omake:

Arthur: I'm really not in the mood for this . . .

Woman in the bed: ?

PoisonousTiger: Aw come on, Arthur, you'll thank me later!

Arthur *stares at PT*: . . .

**First of all, an amazing artist on deviantART, gavorche-san, is collaborating with me on a comic/manga adaption of this fanfic! If you'd like to read the first chapter in comic format, check out my profile page. There's a hyperlink to the first page as well as several fanarts of my fic there.**

**I've had this story buzzing around in my brain ever since I discovered the Nyotalia on Hetalia Archives (huge Hetalia wikia). It just kept growing and growing in my imagination, and I finally had to get it out.**

**I found myself enjoying every moment of writing this, and I hope you enjoy reading it ^_^ . Yes, I went with one of the more common pairings (sorta), but I hope you'll forgive me for that. -_-;**

**I don't believe the language or adult themes included in this story warranted a M rating, but if you disagree, please let me know. I don't want to violate any of the guidelines.**

**Please note that sometimes, during the first hour after posting a new chapter, I often remember something that I forgot and I'll go back and add it. So you may want to wait at least an hour before you read the next new chapter. If you can't wait, you could read it, then go back and see if there are any changes (but you don't have to).**

**I have many other fanfics written and several more in mind I plan to write; please read each as its own separate entity. How characters act in one story may be completely different in another one. That's just how I write, so please just go with the flow (don't be thinking "but in XX story you made Y act like Z" because it might not happen).**

I'll be writing a Gakuen Hetalia AU Gender-bend (yes I like to mix it up) fic in the near future. I've created a sorta-Role Play style forum to help out with things like voting for Student Council and helping out with names for nations who haven't received human names yet.** Please check out my profile for the current poll and links to the forum (come play with me? I'll greatly appreciate it).**

**If you liked what you read, please let me know in a review. If you have some concrit for me, please let me know as well (you can leave it in a review or PM me, I'll be happy for it either way). If you didn't like what you read, thank you for taking the time to read this far ^_^**

* * *

Although this story is my own work, it is based off of characters from _Axis Powers Hetalia_. **I don't own any part of Hetalia. **_**Axis Powers Hetalia a**_**nd its characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya and other copyright owners.**


	2. You're His What ? !

**Ch. 2: You're His What?!**

Soft amber waves curled gently against a peaches-and-cream cheek. An extra-large, dark blue T-shirt with "I heart NY" on the front framed the young woman's form and made her look petite, but it was clear that she had a curvy figure. If the Old Glory boxers didn't peek out where the shirt curved up off her hips, anyone would swear she wasn't wearing anything else. Dark lashes framed her blue-gray eyes and below that her rose-colored lips framed a row of white teeth as she smiled up at Arthur.

Any other guy would be thanking his lucky stars for this lovely vision, but Arthur was too confused at the moment to think about that. _I swear that only Alfred and Matthew had said they were going to "crash" here, so who is this? Did one of my fairy friends decide to play a prank on me and turn one of those guys into a woman?_

"I'm called Am[yawn]a," the woman said, hiding her sudden yawn with her hand. She smiled mischievously. "But tell me, do you always use such language when talking to a lady? Especially one you're groping?"

Heat flowed over his head from embarrassment as he quickly removed his hand from its current position between the woman's arms and chest.

The young woman laughed.

He huffed. _This has to be Alfred_. _He's the only one of the two brothers who delights in pointing out when I slip up as a gentleman_. "Don't be so crass, Alfred," Arthur scolded. "You were the one who embraced me."

The young woman looked confused. "Who're you calling 'Alfred'?" she asked. "I told you, my name is Amelia. Huh. That yawn musta covered up what I said."

Arthur looked at the woman and blinked. "In that case, I beg your pardon, dear lady, for the unintentional touching," he said in his best gentleman-mode. "Perhaps you can clear up something then. What are you to Alfred?"

Arthur had heard Hungary, Belgium, and Taiwan going on about "Moe! Moe!" at the last World Conference. This young woman sat up and had the same expression they had then.

"Gentlemanly language with that accent," she said. "I love it!" She jumped over to where Arthur was sitting, knocking him down in her embrace. "You sound so sexy," she said. "I love you!"

"Miss . . . Amelia, please restrain yourself," Arthur said, trying to remove her arms. It was clear she was an American, but she was bear-hugging him as tightly and immovably as Alfred. _Do all Americans have his astronomical strength?_ He struggled to sit up again and could only manage to prop himself up.

The girl snuggled into his chest, and he could smell a chocolate-chip-cookie scent float off her hair. Her breasts pressed up against his chest, and that softness plus the previous sensations solicited several reactions in him. He became light-headed and dizzy, and Arthur was positive that a dark pink hue was parading from his cheeks all the way to his ears as the heat traveled through them.

Amelia looked up. "Wow," she said, "Even my name sounds sexy when you're the one saying it." She released her grip, propped herself up on his chest. The neck to the shirt sloped open slightly revealing cleavage.

"Miss, your clothes," Arthur gasped, looking upwards.

She shifted. Arthur assumed it was to adjust.

"Thanks," she said.

When Arthur looked back at her, he noticed they were a mere 10 centimeters* from each other's faces. He forgot how to breathe for a moment.

"Sexy accent, polite language, and a gentleman," she listed off. Amelia softly tapped Arthur's lips with her fingertip and then let it linger there for a moment. An electric pulse shot all the way down to his toes.

"That's kinda _**hot**_," she said, changing the tone of her voice as if she was imitating or quoting someone else+. She removed her fingertip.

Arthur remembered how to breathe again.

Amelia's expression changed to a softer one, and she looked down where her finger had been. She closed her eyes and leaned in closer to him.

He felt a sudden urge to kiss her.

"Hey Artie, G'Mornin'!" Alfred shouted as he burst through the door.

Arthur shot up into a seated position, easily knocking the young woman off of him.

She landed at the foot of his bed. The girl grabbed a blanket, covered herself, and then made sure she was hidden by the poster-bed's curtains.

Arthur raised his eyebrows at this. As if to answer his unspoken question, Amelia raised a finger to her lips and shook her head. She looked panicked.

Arthur smoothed out his nightshirt and pulled back the curtains enough to make it look like he was alone and still hide her. Whatever reason she had, he didn't feel like revealing her to the others for the time being. "Haven't I told you a million times to knock first?" he said.

Alfred stood in the doorway and rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah. Guess I always forget though," he said. "It's okay though, right? You weren't doing anything private, were you?" He wiggled his eyebrows.

Arthur thought about what he almost _**had**_ done and felt his face flush slightly. "Even if I'm just sleeping, I want my privacy, you berk," he said.

"M'kay. Sorry," Alfred said, laughing.

As if he appeared out of thin air, Canada peeked around America. "S-s-s-soorry," Matthew said.

"Well, knock next time," Arthur repeated, folding his arms. "What do you two want anyway?"

"Gee. How to ask this . . ." Alfred said. "Um, did anyone come in your room last night and . . . ?" He looked around. "Like a girl or . . ." He coughed. His question made it sound like he was asking about Arthur's love life.

Arthur looked at the woman at the foot of his bed. "Please don't say anything," she mouthed, putting her hands together.

Alfred marched over to the closet and looked inside.

"No, no one came in here," Arthur lied.

Alfred looked in the bathroom and then behind the window curtains."Amelia?" he said quietly.

Canada caught Arthur's attention because he was staring steadily at the fireplace. Arthur glanced where he was focusing and saw a small bomber jacket folded neatly on top of a small overnight bag. They were in the chair Amelia had used last night and mostly blocked from view, so Alfred hadn't seen them.

Matthew looked back at Arthur as Alfred walked back over to the doorway. Arthur shot him a look that said, "Not a word." Matthew looked down at his feet.

"Well, false alarm, I guess. Could've sworn she'd . . ." Alfred said. He let out a small laugh. "Forget I said anything." He clapped his hand on his brother's shoulder. Matthew winced.

"C'mon Mattie," Alfred said. "Let's go get ready for the conference. First dibs on the guest shower, by the way." He raced out the door and down the stairs.

Matthew hesitated. "Arthur, why are you . . . ?" he said. He stopped and shook his head. "Never mind." He exited, shutting the door behind him.

Arthur got up from the bed and locked the door. He returned to the bed and sat at the head. "Amelia, would you mind telling me the reason I just lied to my friends for you?" he asked. "Why didn't you want Alfred to know you were in here?"

"Because Al might have got the wrong idea," she said, picking at a thread on his blanket.

"So you're his lover and had a fight last night with him?" he proposed.

"Ewww! No!" Amelia said, cringing. "Gross. Why would I be lovers with my brother? Gross."

Arthur chuckled."Yeah. Wait. What?"+

Amelia got another panicked look on her face. "Sorry, tell ya in a minute," she said, as she started to hop off the bed. "Gotta use the little girl's room." All of a sudden, Amelia grabbed onto the poster-bed curtains and fell off the edge of the bed. Her foot had managed to trap itself in the blanket and covers she'd pulled around herself earlier.

"Pop-pop-pop pop-pop!" the curtains separated themselves from the bed and plopped down on top of her.

Arthur blinked. _Now I'm glad that I modernized those curtains so that they attached through loops. Otherwise, they would have torn off the top of the bed._

All that he could see of Amelia was her feet sticking up against the edge of the bed, her right foot still wrapped in the blanket. He bit his lip to keep from laughing since that would be an ungentlemanly thing to do.

"I'm okay," Amelia said, her voice muffled by the layers of cloth.

"Pffft!" Arthur couldn't hold back his laughter any longer. He clapped a hand to his mouth to stop himself. "Do you need any help?"

"Nah, I got it," she said. The pile of curtains started wiggling along with her feet, but she got no closer to untangling herself after a full minute.

"Pfffttwwaaah ha ha!" Arthur scooted over to the edge of the bed and uncovered her, laughing the whole time. After a minute or so, he found her.

She glanced up at him and pouted.

Arthur tried to stop laughing. "I'm sorry," he said, wiping away a tear. "It's just that . . . well, if you'd seen what you looked like from my perspective."

Amelia scowled, opened her mouth to say something and then suddenly got the previous panicked look on her face again. "Okay-thanks-I-forgive-you-gotta-pee," she said quickly as she raced over to the bathroom and shut the door. After a few minutes, the toilet flushed, and the shower started.

Arthur walked over and knocked on the door. "Are you trying to avoid answering my previous question?" he asked through the door.

"What? Can't hear you," Amelia said.

Arthur heard the shower curtains rustle, and the lock on the door clicked. He looked down at the doorknob. _I can't believe what I'm about to do._He grabbed the knob and turned it. The door easily opened, and steam poured out. Arthur looked toward the shower. Amelia was peeking out the right side.

"Didn't think you'd actually open it," she said, smiling. She looked neither surprised nor embarrassed. "You're letting cold air in. Come in or wait outside."

Arthur couldn't see anything through the steam except her left shoulder and damp face and hair. Shocked at his own brazen behavior, he crimsoned and stepped into the bathroom. He shut the door behind him and kicked himself mentally for acting so out of character, but he needed to satisfy his curiosity. He looked at the young woman.

"Let's start over. Name's Amelia E. Jones," she said, "Pleased to meet you." She extended her left hand to him.

Instinctively, he shook it, forgetting that it was wet from the shower. "I'm Arthur Kirkland."

"I know," she said, smiling.

"You know?"

"Yeah. Al—that is _Alfred__—_told me your name," she said.

"Jones. You have the same last name?"

She nodded. "We _**are**_ siblings, you know."

"So I didn't mishear you when you called him your—"

"Brother," Amelia finished. "Yeah. He's oldest; Mattie's youngest. I'm in the middle. I think. Well, that's what we decided anyway."

"Why were you hiding from your brother?"

"I told you, I didn't want him to get the wrong idea," she said.

"If he were to come back right now, he would definitely get the wrong idea," Arthur pointed out. "Why did you let me in?"

She shrugged. "You're a gentleman, or you try to be, according to Al." Amelia pulled the curtain slightly more open, which revealed a little more cleavage but still covered most of her. "Unless you actually came in here to join me?" she said, lowering her voice in an attempt to sound sultry.

Arthur's face got hotter in spite of the warm steam. He was glad his decorator had chosen a dark red shower curtain, in addition to an opaque white one. He'd really feel like a pervert if it was a clear one. He tried to look away from the soft curve of her upper chest but found he was unable to. He noticed a scar above where her heart would be.

Amelia followed his gaze and clapped her right hand over it.

"What happened to—" Arthur started to ask.

She turned and pulled the curtain shut. "It's nothing. Alfred has one too. Ever since 9-11."

"What kind of a twisted relationship do you have with your brother?" Arthur asked finally. He heard her drop the soap.

"E-w-w. You make it sound like we stabbed each other or somethin' all those years ago," she said. "We don't have any kind of weird relationship. It's just that some wounds never fully heal. You should know that."

"Of course, I do," Arthur said. Some of his "healed" wounds from centuries ago still ached.

"Exactly: A nation experiences its people's pain. A nation receives its people's and the land's wounds," Amelia said.

"Are you trying to tell me that you are a nation?" he asked.

"Yup. But I'm not just _**any**_ nation. I'm America!" she said with the same gusto he'd heard from Alfred so many times.

"That's impossible," Arthur said.

Amelia popped her head around the shower curtain again. "I'm over 300 years old. I've had things happen to me that should have killed me, I heal quicker than an average human, I'm as strong as Al, I kinda look like my brothers, and I'm fluent in Esperanto.‡ If I'm not a nation, then what am I?"

Arthur opened his mouth. No answer came out.

She closed the curtain again. "If you're about to call me a liar, don't," Amelia said defensively. "Al will confirm all of this to you. There were lots of us 'baby nations'—for lack of a better word—before and after you first met Al; most of them starved, died, or disappeared before Al 'adopted' you. The only thing Al and I could figure I why stuck around was maybe because of the Russian or Spanish colonies.§ The other theory we came up with was the fact that the people in our country often are divided in two on so many issues that I came about because of it."

"So you really are his _actual_ sister?" He leaned against the sink counter. Only a few nations actually claimed to be blood-related; everyone else just "adopted" siblings.

"Yeah," Amelia said. "We don't have any parents just like you other nations, but we both know we're related. I was born in a different place than Al was. When we met, the only thing we knew for sure was that Al was America, and so was I. We just knew it. So Al said, 'Fine then. You must be my sister.' And that's how we've always been."

"You're a nation? _**And**_ America?" Arthur asked again, his head reeling.

"Could you stop saying it like it's impossible?" Amelia said, sounding slightly annoyed. "I mean, we're kinda like North and South Italy, except our past and circumstances are different than theirs. That is, if Al told me their history correctly."

"Then why haven't we noticed you before now?" he asked.

"Remember when you went to go meet Al and you found him out playing with his pet rabbit?" Amelia asked.

Arthur's mind drifted back to an early morning, a field, and the boy with clear blue eyes who didn't run away and called him "Big Brother". It was the only time he could recall anyone calling him that; Sealand always had called him only "Jerk England".

His eyes teared up at the memory and quickly wiped them. "Yes, it's one of my fondest memories."

"Well, after that, Al told me you were our big brother and really nice, so I went out to meet you," Amelia continued. "You and France were fighting, which was kinda frightening, and then you said some really weird things, and I got scared."

Arthur cringed. _So it was the sister I invited to "Open the doors of mystery and play with me forever and ever". No wonder she had cried, but then, France had almost cried too._A twinge of regret at his zealousness to win against France poked him in the gut_._

"But when I saw _you_ crying and sad, I remembered what Al had said, and that's why I had to cheer you up 'cause you were our big brother," she continued.

The tears threatened to leak out of his eyes again.

"I sure miss Bubba," Amelia said. "Unfortunately, animals have short but beautiful lives."

Arthur blinked. "Bubba?"

"Yeah, my pet bison," she replied. "He was so cute."

"You have some strange ideas on what's considered cute," he said.

She giggled. "Al says the same thing to me all the time," she said.

"I'm not surprised," Arthur said, smiling.

"Sorry, memories got me off-track," she said. "Back to what I was telling you: Afterward, when we realized that everyone mistook me for Al, we talked about it and decided it was better that everyone think there was only one of us."

For a minute or two, the water was the only sound while Arthur tried to absorb this new information. "But that still doesn't explain why Alfred never mentioned you," he said.

"Why would he?" she said. "When it was clear I was here for good, Al and I decided that he would handle the foreign affairs and wars, and I would handle the domestic issues. Al rarely sees the need to talk to you guys about domestic issues, and I don't need to associate with any nations because that would be considered 'foreign affairs'."

"But the Great Depression was domestic," he said.

"Actually, didn't that affect other nations too?" Amelia countered. "Once colds spread to you guys, it's in Al's ballpark, not mine."

Arthur frowned. That seemed a little irresponsible to him. _Shouldn't siblings support each other?_he wondered. Of course, he wouldn't know if that was the case since he didn't have a great relationship with any of his siblings.

"Wait, then why are you here now?" he asked. "The World Conference would be considered 'foreign affairs'."

"Well, Al didn't know how to explain some domestic incidents that have affected the rest of the world," she explained, "so I was going to talk about them. Plus he owed me a trip to England, so he decided it would save on airfare, fuel, and trouble explaining everything if he brought me along to the Conference instead of taking me on a separate trip some other time. But on the way over, Al changed his mind about introducing me to you guys; lucky for me they couldn't just turn the plane around. We worked out a compromise: I'll observe, and he'll just read my speech; he promised me he'd do a good job of it."

"I wouldn't count on it," Arthur said under his breath.

"What?"

"Nothing."

There was another moment of silence that filled the bathroom.

"You know what? For implying that stuff about me and Al and 9-11, I'm going to use your shampoo," Amelia said.

Arthur could hear her squeeze the bottle. The bottle then made a crashing sound on the floor of the shower, followed by an "Ah crap!" from her. "One thing I still don't understand," he said, scratching his head. "I've been to both Alfred's and Matthew's houses many, many times, and I've never seen you."

"Well, that's because I don't live with Al," she said. "Haven't for a couple of centuries. When I was younger, I lived with some non-nations Al and I had met and made friends with. He told me not to come to the house you two stayed in because it might freak you out. I don't live with Mattie either. Plus I'm almost always away on assignments when anyone visits. You guys usually call ahead, so none of you accidentally bump into me because Al lets me know not to visit during your stay. I'm only at Al's place when he wants me to cook for him, or I want to crash at his place for a while either to rest or hang out."

"I think I've visited Alfred more than anyone else," Arthur said. "How is it possible that I've never, as you put it, 'bumped into you' after you both grew up?"

"But you _**have**_ . . . I've met you," Amelia stated. "A few times. You don't remember?"

"No. Sorry."

She sighed and let out a small groan. "This is why I keep telling Al to introduce me. I guess you wouldn't remember me if you thought I was just an ordinary worker, Secret Service agent, or US citizen or some other non-nation human."

"If you are a nation, then you know we don't really have a lot of interaction with non-nations," he said, "and because their life spans are shorter, we don't usually establish long-term relationships with them or try to remember every single one we've met."

"Yes. I know that all too well," Amelia said, turning off the water.

Arthur noticed that her voice sounded a little sad at that last statement.

Before he could ask about it, she poked her head out from around the shower curtain again. "Could you please hand me a towel?"

Arthur did as she asked and then tried not to listen to her drying herself off or think about the towel he'd just handed her.

"Um, you might want to take a shower too," she said, stepping out of the shower wrapped only in the towel, wet hair loose against her shoulders. "I think my bros won't get all suspicious that you took two showers if they're close together."

Arthur nodded and looked up at the ceiling. He heard the door open and shut. He lowered his gaze and glanced around the empty room before he started removing his clothes. _Maybe the hot water will clear my mind_, he decided.

Arthur finished his shower, still befuddled, and walked out with only a towel around his waist as he headed for his closet to get his clothes.

"Wow," Amelia said.

Arthur jumped. _Bloody hell! I figured she would have left by the time I'd finished_.

Amelia was dressed in jeans and a blouse. Actually, it looked like several blouses layered over each other, but the material appeared to be so thin, it looked like one blouse.

He kicked himself for thinking she'd be in a bikini top and hot-pants. Even though it was June now, it would be colder in the United Kingdom than in the States, and besides, those were just the girls in those outrageous American music videos.

She finished slipping on her boots, pulled her jeans pant legs over them, and then gave Arthur the once-over. "Are you trying to seduce me? _**Hot**_," she said breathlessly, using the same tone of voice she'd used earlier.+

Arthur's face grew warm from embarrassment as he fumbled for the door to his closet. Amelia chuckled. He grabbed his clothes and hurried back into the bathroom. When he re-emerged, she was sitting in the chair by the fireplace, reading a book and munching on some scones he'd left on his bedside table the previous night.

"Were you waiting for me?" he asked.

She looked up and put the book down. "Yup. I can't just walk down the stairs, 'cause then Al and Matt will know I was up here."

"You still haven't told me why you want to keep what happened last night a secret," he said. "We just slept together. Nothing more." He blushed as he realized that statement made him sound like a playboy, even though, nothing really _did_happen but sleep.

"Al doesn't know that," Amelia said. "He always acts like a heroic big brother when he thinks I need it."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Do you remember how Mexico's peso went all crazy a few decades ago?" she asked.

Arthur nodded.

"Well back then, Mexico came to visit to ask Al for money. He came looking for Al in the kitchen while I was mopping up in there from a spill I accidentally made and slipped on the soapy floor," Amelia said. "Both of us ended up in a heap, him on top of me."

Arthur held up his hand to stop her. "Wait. Don't tell me. Alfred came in for some food and saw the two of you in a compromising position."

She laughed and nodded. "It probably would have better if I hadn't been wearing only my cut-off shorts and a bikini top under my button-up shirt, but it was summer, and I was trying to keep cool," she said. "It made it look like Mexico was assaulting me. It almost was The Mexican War all over again†."

She shook her head and sighed. "It took a week before Mexico was conscious, and a month before he was himself again," Amelia continued. "Fortunately, I was able to calm Al down quickly enough to get him to listen to what had really happened."

"Well, Alfred has always been 'shoot first, ask questions later' kind of person," he said.

"Lucky for Mexico, Bro only used his fists," she said. "Worked out for Mexico though 'cause he got the money he'd come to ask for. Al was really guilty for quite a while after that. But our boss later called it a loan, so Mexico still is in trouble financially."

Suddenly Arthur was glad Alfred hadn't found her in his room.

"I'm sure you would have been all right if he'd found me earlier, though, 'cause it's you," Amelia said.

Arthur thought about Alfred's inadvertent confession once about building a plane to "beat him up" and blanched. "I'm not so sure," he said. "So what do you propose we do about getting you outside?"

"Well, I didn't see any fire escape," she said, walking over to the window, "so you must have a collapsible ladder somewhere in here, right? I didn't want to snoop through your things looking for it though."

Arthur blinked. _She__'s__ quite different from her brother. Alfred would have just rifled through my whole room._

"Arthur?"

"Oh. Yes, of course," he said, and pulled the ladder out from behind the window curtain.

Amelia blushed and laughed. "Yeah. I guess I should have looked there first."

_I guess she is a __**little **__bit __like Alfred_, Arthur thought, amused by the airheadedness that he was used to seeing in Alfred. He decided that trait must be genetic somehow. He opened the window and attached the ladder to the sill.

"Your ladder, Milady," he said, bowing slightly and smiling at his little joke. For some reason, he found it easy to be comfortable and jovial around this American sibling.

Amelia grabbed her overnight bag and gave him a million-dollar smile. She tossed the overnight bag and her bomber jacket out the window, and they hit the ground with a thud. She stepped out onto the top rung, stepped down, and then steadied herself as the ladder shifted slightly.

"Here, allow me," he said, placing his hands on the top of the ladder and leaning out to steady it.

"That's my gentleman," she said, leaning up and pecking him lightly on the cheek.

Arthur froze in place.

Amelia grinned and practically slid down the ladder.

He watched her skip through the garden. She tripped once and caught herself before stopping at the gate. She opened it and turned to wave to him.

"See you in a minute," she called as she giggled and disappeared through the gate.

Arthur stared in stunned silence at the gate for a moment, then brought his hand to his cheek; it felt like it was on fire.

* * *

**A/N**

**If you liked what you read, please let me know in a review. Faves and alerts make me giggly and giddy. If you have some concrit for me, please let me know as well (you can leave it in a review or PM me, I'll be happy for it either way). If you didn't like what you read, thank you for taking the time to read this far ^_^**

**Arthur's Slang**

**berk = idiot (yup. Yet another way to say it). This one implies a degree of clumsiness.**

***For non-metric users, 10 centimeters is almost 4 inches.**

**+That's right. These are all "Griff's Sister" references/homage from **_**Red vs. Blue**_** web series. "Sister" would always be calling everything "Hot" no matter how weird or wrong it was. Also, she would share with the guys something that would be totally shocking in a casual voice, to which they'd laugh and then say "Yeah. Wait. What?". With two brothers, it's likely that Amelia would have seen the series with them and picked up some favorite lines of her own. My Amelia is nothing like Griff's Sister though. She just thought the lines were funny, and that's how she flirts.**

‡**My head-canon is that, back in the 1880s, the "creator" of Esperanto, Ludwig Lazarus Zamenhof, was actually a witness to the phenomenon of nations communicating with each other in a language that didn't seem to exist among any non-nation humans. He decided to write down and translate their language for all humankind to discover and learn. The reason the nations let ****him take credit for "creating a language" was because it was easier than explaining their ****existence. I hope you'll allow me this head-canon since it explains how nation personifications whose people don't have the same native language can communicate with each other ;)**

**§Lots of colonies were started in the New World that failed from starvation, disease, and other causes. Spain colonized what is now Florida, California, and New Mexico. Russia had trading outposts in Alaska, the Aleutian Islands, British Columbia, Washington, and Oregon. When the American colonists participated in and helped win the French and Indian War (after already assisting England in beating up the French in the War of the Austrian Succession), it unified them as colonies and British "citizens". While the triumph they shared with Britain strengthened the colonies' loyalty to the Empire, disunity had already started to form. British elite in England complained that the colonies weren't paying enough taxes to the royal coffers. American colonies countered that their sons had fought and died in a war that benefited European interests more than their own. And thus, started the seeds of discontent toward England that eventually lead to Revolution.**

†**Regarding the Mexican War, Mexico and the United States used to be good neighbors. The United States asked Mexico's permission to let its citizens live in Texas (which belonged to Mexico at the time). Mexico granted the permission easily b/c the area wasn't really populated at the time. **

**Soon enough, though, problems started: Mexico had outlawed slavery, but some of the Texas businessmen owned plantations and had started a discussion of becoming a separate state from the rest of the Union. This did not make Mexico happy and "The Battle of the Alamo" occurred b/c of it. **

**Some historians claim that the United States provoked the fight by annexing Texas and believing in the "Manifest Destiny" (the belief that the nation was supposed to spread across the continent). While some historians claim that Mexico was the first to fire a shot at US troops on April 25, 1846, eventually killing 16 US soldiers during the skirmish, others argue that the United States started the fight by sending those soldiers into Mexican territory and, in a sense, "invading" Mexico and declaring war on the nation. **

**Mexico ultimately lost the war, and their military leader, Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna, was forced to sign the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, which "sold" the disputed territories of Alta California and Nuevo Mexico to the United States for $15 million and "acknowledged" the United States' sovereignty over all of Texas north of the Rio Grande. Many Mexicans still consider these territories (now states) as "Stolen Territories" and hold a grudge against the United States and Santa Anna (who was exiled from Mexico as a result of this war) for that outcome. There's a ton of controversy to this war, which I will not be going into at this time b/c the information would be as long as this chapter (as you can see from this condensed version). **

**Please don't rely solely on my information here for any discussion about this part of history-seek it out b/c it's not all here! My point in mentioning it was that there were misunderstandings galore, which could have been settled peaceably. . . just like what happened with Amelia, Alfred, and poor Mexico.**

**The **_**E **___**in Amelia's name might stand for Emily since that's what the Japanese fans often call fem!America . . . it ****is**** my way of compromising between the two fan names.**

Omake:

Arthur turned around, still touching his cheek. _What the . . ._ he thought as he headed for the ground-level rooms. He barely kept himself from falling when he tripped on the first step down the stairs.

* * *

**Again, as I said in Ch. 1, an amazing artist on deviantART, gavorche-san, is collaborating with me on a comic/manga adaption of this fanfic! If you'd like to read the first chapter in comic format, check out my profile page. There's a hyperlink to the first page as well as several fanarts of my fic there.** **I hope that you'll all indulge me for a little OOC on Arthur's part. -_-; I'm unsure if he would go into a bathroom while a lady was showering, but I liked the situation and it moved things along.**

**Please note: **_**As I said before in Ch. 1, this is a Nyotalia fanfic**__**. **_**I never intended for it to be a gender-bend (I originally had tagged it as a fem!US, but I guess that term is reserved only for when **_**Alfred**_** is a girl).** _**Also, as I said in the description this is a slight AU story.**___You see, Amelia is not a true OC character (in the sense of the word) since Hidekaz Himaruya drew the Nyotalia girls for fun to see what female versions of the nations would be like. He designed them to be different people from his original characters and even wrote up character profiles on them (though they were very brief ones). Hence, the reason I thought that Amelia could be a separate being from Alfred. The only thing I can see that would make this a slight AU fic is that both Amelia and Alfred inhabit the same plane of existence, and even then I think it's 100% possible for such a phenomenon to exist in the canon Hetalia universe (I've read plenty of Nyotalia fics where both the canon characters and Nyotalia girls exist in the same world).

I'll be writing a Gakuen Hetalia AU Gender-bend (yes, it's quite the mash-up) fic in the near future. I've created a sorta-Role Play style forum to help out with things like voting for Student Council and helping out with names for nations who haven't received human names yet. **Please check out my profile for the current poll and links to the forum (come play with me? I'll greatly appreciate it).**


	3. I Can Cook! Wanna Taste My Cupcakes?

******Ch 3: I Can Really Cook! Wanna Taste My Cupcakes?**

**Or**

**Double Entendre*: How to Give Canada a Bloody Nose**

The door chimes called out, and before they could finish their melody, they started over.

"Okay, okay. Hold your horses!" Alfred hollered as he answered the door.

Arthur tried to hurry down the stairs but didn't make it in time. He entered the front room and glanced toward the entryway. Amelia caught his gaze and smiled slightly, trying not to call attention to the exchange.

"About time you got here," Alfred said. "I was getting worried."

"Sorry," she said, glancing at her brother. She returned her gaze to Arthur. "Hiya!" Amelia said, raising her hand in a high wave. "I'm Alfred and Matthew's sister, Amelia Jones."

"Amelia," Alfred groaned, "I thought we discussed this. You were supposed to introduce yourself as 'Traveling US Ambassador' Amy Smith."

"Oops," she said. Amelia shrugged and slightly stuck out her tongue. "I was so excited to finally meet Arthur that I kinda forgot."

Alfred threw up his hands in frustration.

Amelia winked at Arthur. He bit his cheek to keep from laughing; her slip-up was intentional. When they made full eye contact, Arthur caught his breath. It almost seemed as if a spark passed between them.

Amelia bit her lip and looked away, her cheeks reddening. "Don't freak out, bro," she said quietly. "I mean, come on. If you can't trust Arthur to not tell anyone, who can you trust?"

Alfred rubbed his chin; he obviously hadn't considered this. "Okay then," he said. "Artie, this is my sis. Sis, Artie."

Amelia looked sideways at her brother, smiled slightly, and then extended her hand. "Please to meetcha," she said. "You look just like your photo from last year's World Conference. Only less angry."

Alfred laughed loudly.

Arthur scowled at him.

She grabbed Arthur's hand and pumped it up and down enthusiastically.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. The Amelia upstairs was a little different from the one in front of him. _I wonder why she's acting like that, _he mused.

"Y'all have breakfast yet?" she asked.

"No, and we're starving," Alfred answered.

"Me too," Amelia said.

"Didn't you eat breakfast at the hotel where you stayed last night?" Matthew asked.

Arthur blinked. That's right, Canada was here too_. _

Amelia paused. "Not really. I had these bread-cake thingies. They were good, but I didn't finish when I realized what time it was," she said smoothly.

Matthew looked at the floor, and Arthur could see he was not convinced.

"Well I'll just have to make us all somethin' good," she said, "if it's okay with our host." She turned toward Arthur.

"Hold on. You're going to make breakfast for _all_ of us?" Arthur asked. He cringed. Some of the culinary monstrosities Alfred made had a reputation of sending people to the hospital.

"She's really good at it," Matthew interjected.

"I'm only 'good' because you taught me how to cook, Mattie," Amelia pointed out. "It was one disaster after another with Al teaching me."

"You are technically my guest," Arthur said. "I can make everyone breakfast."

"That's not necessary," Amelia stated. "It's the least I can do since my brothers are staying here for free."

"That reminds me, Sis," Alfred said. "Where did you end up staying last night? You weren't here this morning, but your luggage and everything was."

Arthur noticed the pile of luggage in his front room for the first time.

"Well, since you two took the only beds and I didn't want to sleep on one of the couches, I decided to go with my original plan of where I wanted to sleep," she replied.

Arthur raised an eyebrow._ Her __**original**__ plan? But last night she came to my ro_— He felt his cheeks tingle slightly when he realized _what_ she had just confessed about her plan without actually saying it.

"Picking up and moving all my luggage by myself last night would have made a ton of noise and woken up Arthur, so I decided to only take my overnight with me," she replied as she plopped the small bag and jacket down on top of the suitcases. "But I don't know if I can stay there tonight, so I was going to take my luggage later if I got the go-ahead."

She gave Arthur as side-glance, and he felt himself start to sweat a little. _Is she trying to get my permission to sleep in my bed tonight?_ he thought. _O____r __does she plan on asking Alfred, "Hey bro, do you __mind if I sleep with Arthur again tonight?" _He tried his best not to show the trepidation he felt at that question. _I'd rather not go to the World Conference in a body cast._

"So where exactly did you sleep last night?" Alfred repeated, sounding slightly irritated. "Not somewhere ritzy in this rich neighborhood of Artie's, I hope."

"Nah, the place I stayed at wasn't expensive at all. I love the design of the whole place! The room was beautifully decorated and comfortable, and the bed was sooooo soft and warm," Amelia said, giving Arthur another side-glance and a slight smile. "You don't need to worry about the bill either. I've got it covered."

Matthew's eyes grew wide at this statement; he looked at Arthur. Arthur tried to look nonchalant as he listened to the two siblings.

"If you say so, but—" Alfred said.

"I love the owner!" she gushed. "He's the best! I really love England, especially after last night."

Arthur blushed slightly at this comment.

Matthew's whole body started turning red. Arthur almost expected steam to start pouring off the top of his head.

Alfred, as usual, didn't notice any of what was going on. "I hope he's an old blind guy," he said. "I don't want him getting the wrong ideas and start hitting on you." His comment irritated Arthur for some reason.

"Aww Al, don't be so overprotective. I can take care of myself, y'know," Amelia said, "but I know the owner's been around for a long time if that helps you feel any better about it. Now, let's get breakfast started." She picked up another piece of luggage about the size of a beach bag and walked over to Arthur.

"Make pancakes," Alfred said.

"Can't do anything until Arthur here shows me his stuff," Amelia said, tugging on Arthur's sleeve. "Come on. Let's get cookin'."

Matthew choked and clapped a hand to his nose. A small trickle of blood leaked past his fingers.

"Whoa, Bro! You okay?" Alfred asked.

"Maple~," Matthew replied. More blood flowed.

Arthur marveled at Matthew's reaction to what was being said. _I hope he isn't going to bleed to death in my front room. _

"Tissue. Tissue," Alfred started tossing things around the room as he searched.

Amelia reached in the bag she'd picked up and flung something at him. "Use these."

Without even looking, Alfred caught the object easily. He glanced at it. "Tissue mini-pack, huh?" he said. He tossed it over to Matthew. "What else have you got in that 'essentials bag' you always take everywhere with you?"

"None of your business," she said, sticking out her tongue.

"Call me when you're done cooking," Alfred said, shrugging and looking around the front room. "Hey Artie, where's your TV?"

Amelia tugged on Arthur's arm again, trying to get him to move towards the hallway.

"You need to be careful," Matthew said.

"Mattie, I'm just pulling on his arm," she said. "I know my own strength. Geez. Send a guy to the hospital with a concussion a few times because he can't play softball, and he never forgives you."

"That's not what I meant," Matthew countered.

Alfred opened a closet. "Don't you have a TV in every room?" he asked.

"No, I mean if you're going to . . . um . . . you should use . . . um," Matthew stammered. "I mean if you and Arthur . . . aren't careful . . . you'll get in trouble with . . ." He glanced at Alfred, and Arthur guessed he was trying to keep their "secret" from earlier. ". . . It'll be an awful mess."

"Oh don't worry about that," Amelia said, patting the bag. "I make a point to always carry protection for that, just in case I'm not at home. It's one of my essentials. You'd know that, Mattie, if you'd ever bother to watch me in action."

Matthew reddened again, and the tissue he'd shoved in his nostrils also turned red.

"Geez Bro. Is it the low altitude?" Alfred asked, noticing his brother's nose.

Arthur coughed, knowing exactly how much their younger brother was misunderstanding what Amelia had said. "Matthew, don't bleed on the rug please," he said. "Alfred, the TV is in the lounge. It's almost time for _Monty Python's Flying Circus_, so you may want to hurry."

Alfred didn't waste another moment on his brother. "Come on, Mattie!" he called, rushing out of the front room.

Arthur stopped Matthew before he reached the doorway to the hallway. "It's not what you think," he told him. "Either Amelia or I will explain later. Right now, can you keep quiet about it?"

Matthew nodded and then left the room.

Amelia turned toward Arthur. "What are you talking about?" Amelia asked, releasing his arm. "What do I need to explain?"

"Matthew knows you were in my room last night," Arthur replied. "He saw your things by the fireplace."

"Nuts, I forgot that I just left them in that chair."

"So either you or I need to explain exactly what we did last night," he said. "Because he thinks we . . . you know."

It took her a moment to realize what he was implying. "Oh man, wait . . . so everything I just said . . ." Amelia said, letting out a laugh. "I never would have pegged Mattie for a pervert, though."

"Well, we were in the same bed all night long," Arthur countered. "Who wouldn't draw the same conclusion?" He folded his arms. "Your brother just has a very vivid imagination . . . " he concluded.

Amelia snickered.

". . . apparently," he added.

She let out another laugh but then suddenly looked serious. "You know, if Mattie had snitched to Al about what he _thinks_ we did, I don't think that I could have talked my way out of that situation at all," she said thoughtfully. "I'll have to make it up to him somehow for keeping quiet." She appeared to ponder on that for a moment.

"I'm curious about one thing though," Arthur said finally.

"Hmm?"

"Protection?"

Amelia laughed again and set her bag on top of a nearby chair back. She opened it and pulled out a pink and white cloth. She slipped her arms through what looked like sleeves and then tied up the neckline and her waist. Her blouse and part of her jeans were covered by an unusual-looking apron.

"I may be 'really good' at cooking, as Mattie says," she said. "But no matter how hard I try to be tidy, I used to always end up with ingredients on my clothes. I borrowed this design from a Japanese lady I met and mixed it up with a traditional apron from the '50s by adding some pretty frills at the bottom."

Arthur chuckled. "Well that apron certainly will protect you from anything coming your way."

She returned the laugh. "Yup," she said. "Poor Mattie. Here I was going on, thinking I was sharing a private joke with you, and all the time he was . . ."

They both started laughing, unable to speak for a minute or two.

"Shall we?" Arthur said, trying to catch his breath from laughing and gesturing toward the doorway to the hallway.

"Um, actually I headed straight upstairs after those two took the only sleeping areas," Amelia said, wiping her eyes. "I don't know where I'm going down here."

"Oh, of course. This way," Arthur said, stepping towards the doorway.

Amelia picked up her bag and grabbed his right hand as he passed her.

Arthur stopped and looked at her.

She blushed and looked away for a moment, then back at him. Suddenly the joking from earlier didn't feel like joking anymore. "I don't want to get lost," she said finally.

He let out a small nervous laugh. "Don't worry. I won't let you."

She squeezed his hand lightly and smiled.

Arthur's throat suddenly felt dry, and he started worrying that his hand might start sweating.

* * *

**A/N**

***For those unfamiliar with the term, "Double Entendre" is when something is said (like a word or expression or sentence) in a context that it can be understood in two ways, especially when one meaning is risqué. So in that spirit, the first part of the title ****_is_**** a double entendre.**

**This is what I meant about telling me if you think my story should be rated higher than T. What do you think? Is the innuendo too much? (there will be more kissing much, much later so maybe I should ask you then) :p**


	4. Flour in Her Hair

**A/N ** So far this has been all England's POV. Starting with this chapter, I going to switch the POV from time to time (most of the fic will be from England's POV, though). **To keep you from getting confused, I'll stick strictly to that person's POV until there's either a chapter break or a line break. I'll trust your intelligence to figure out whose POV it currently is in each section (it should be obvious if I do it right).**

* * *

**Ch. 4: Flour in Her Hair**

_Has something happened to make this bloody hallway longer?_ Arthur wondered. His home had been designed for both comfort and convenience, but it still had plenty of elegance and tradition. Therefore, the kitchen wasn't supposed to be far from the front room, and yet, the hallway seemed to lengthen with each step forward.

Amelia's left hand felt warm. Arthur's right hand was definitely not sweating, but it was certainly acting hypersensitive. It seemed as if his heart had taken up new residence in his palm. _Why is the skin on my entire right arm tingling?_ His heart started pounding feverishly. _What now? ! Am I having a heart attack? ! Hold on. No. That's supposed to be on the other side._

Amelia had become quiet, and it made Arthur nervous. He opened his mouth to say something and couldn't think of a blasted thing to say. What does a person say in situations like this? _"So I noticed that your hand feels really nice in mine" . . . "Does this hallway seem long to you, or is it just me?" . . . "Why did you kiss me earlier? What was that supposed to mean?"_

Arthur stopped, causing Amelia to run into him. Those last two questions suddenly seemed the only thing he could think about. They gnawed at his stomach.

"Arthur?"

He turned to look at her. She was blushing, and in the slightly darkened hallway, her eyes looked a darker blue.

The questions disappeared, and Arthur's heart moved up to his throat. His hand started sweating. "I don't know if I have the ingredients for pancakes," he said stupidly, releasing her hand and placing his hand in his pocket.

Amelia blinked twice. "Okay," she said finally. "That's fine. I actually wanted to try making those bread-cake thingies. Can you show me the recipe?"

Arthur stared. _She wants to cook something I made?_ he thought as he tried not to show how flattered and happy that made him. "They're called 'scones'," he said, straightening his tie. "I don't usually have them for breakfast; one usually serves them for tea actually."

"'Scones' huh?" Amelia said. "Well, that's one more word that doesn't mean the same thing in either of our countries. I mean who uses a 'boot' for a 'trunk'? And what is a 'pram' anyway?"

Arthur smiled. If he didn't believe she was Alfred's sister before, he should now. They had the same silly "rambling disease".

"But I had some ideas for them I know you're going to love," she continued. "Sure, those ones upstairs were a little burnt, but once you scraped off the charcoal, they had a nice flavor. I—" Arthur placed his fingertip on her lips to shush her. It worked instantly. He could feel her warm breath get a little more rapid.

She looked him directly in the eyes, and Arthur felt the blood rush to his cheeks. He pulled his finger away quickly. _What on earth possessed me to do that? I've always shut up Alfred by simply interrupting him._ He fumbled with his tie again. "D-d-don't get distracted," he said, "or the morning will waste away. I'll show you my best recipe."

"Okay," she said quietly, not looking away.

Arthur felt his stomach—or was it his heart?—flip-flop. "Right then," he said, breaking eye contact and looking to his right, "I'll teach you as soon as we get to the . . . kitchen." The room that moments ago had seemed kilometers away was now only 60 centimeters to his right*. Arthur stepped over to the door and opened it. "After you, " he said.

Amelia went inside. She set down her "essentials bag" on a counter top and looked around. "Nice," she said. "I'm going to love working in such a beautiful kitchen." She started looking in cupboards.

Arthur felt that gnawing feeling in his stomach again. "You use that word an awful lot," he observed. "Do you mean it?"

"What word?" Amelia said, setting a mixing bowl on the counter top. She thought for a moment. "Kitchen?" she volunteered, looking confused.

"No. _**Love**_," Arthur said. He flushed slightly. She'd said she loved _him_ three times this morning, if you counted the times she said she "loved" the owner of her "hotel" and "loved England". She'd said it so easily and casually that he'd dismissed it every time as her quirk, like Alfred's "Awesome" or "Hero" catch-phrases, but now it was starting to bother him.

Amelia looked embarrassed. "Yeah. Mattie says I do," she admitted. "I guess I should use words like 'prefer', 'enjoy', or 'like'. But they just don't feel natural." She pulled at her apron's hem and looked down, tucking her hands in the pockets on the front of the apron. "I'll try to watch what I say."

Arthur felt a little confused, then angry. "So when you say 'love', you don't mean it?" he asked. He felt a small pang of hurt.

"No! I do, I do!" she said. "I just mean each 'love' with different levels of intensity." She scratched her head. "I guess that's why Mattie says I need to differentiate according to the level."

_So what level were the ones you said involving me?_ Arthur opened his mouth to ask the question that buzzed around in his head, but nothing came out. His stomach felt nauseous when he considered that she might have meant it as if it was nothing. Suddenly he had no desire to learn what the answer to that question was.

Amelia grabbed a mixing spoon. "So where do we start?" she asked.

"Hmm? Oh. With some flour," Arthur said, digging for it in his pantry. He was glad for the distraction.

* * *

_He didn't ask how strongly I meant it when talking about him,_ Amelia thought as she watched Arthur set out the flour, baking powder, and sugar, measure them, and then sift them together. _Shoot. I shouldn't have let my nervousness screw things up like this._ She opened her mouth to say what he hadn't asked and stopped when she thought of him laughing at her, or scolding her for being silly, or rejecting her. Her stomach felt queasy. She tried concentrating on the ingredients he was pouring into the bowl.

"Do you need to write any of this down, so you can convert them to your American measurements later?" Arthur asked.

Amelia looked up. _He doesn't seem to be thinking about our previous conversation after I changed the subject or what happened in the hall or upstairs earlier_. She felt a pang in her chest. "Yeah," she said, grabbing a notebook out of her bag and jotting down everything.

_I can't just randomly say it again,_ she thought. _Playing it casual obviously doesn't work. I need to wait for the perfect moment, when the mood is just right. _Amelia bit her lip and pictured in her mind what Arthur had done in the hallway and felt her lips start tingling again. _ I thought it was there in the hallway for a second, but maybe he just wanted to shut me up. Even Mattie says I ramble sometimes. _

Arthur put some softened butter into the dry ingredients. "Blend this in," he ordered.

Amelia started mixing it with the spoon. _He's sure into this_. _Must be because Alfred never asks for his recipes._

"No, not with that," he said, taking the spoon out of her hands. "Use your fingers."

"Yes Chef!" Amelia said loudly.

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

"Never mind," she said._ Idiot, _she scolded herself. _He doesn't watch that show, and even if he did, he'd think you were making fun of him. Stop using TV to flirt. Just say what you've wanted to say since 1944_. She pushed the butter into the dry ingredients as the memories floated to her consciousness.

She had sneaked over to the European theater, Christmas 1943, with the USO. After touring the troops, they had ended up in London after New Year's Day 1944. Alfred had been furious when she was discovered, especially since everyone in the USO had been calling _**her **_"America".

"Cool down," she had told him after he'd chewed her out for an hour about the dangers of using that name during wartime. "I told them it was a code-name. They think I'm some kind of spook, or government official, or something."

"_**You are**_," Alfred said, "but for the domestic side of things. You know that's how it's always worked. Now get back to the Home Front—"

"Applesauce! I can't!" she interrupted, "There aren't any planes with the USO scheduled to go back until the middle to end of February. Plus they don't need my help; our people are more capable than you give them credit for."

"Amelia . . ." her brother said, rubbing his temples, "Please . . ."

"Okay, okay. You win this time," she said, folding her arms and thrusting her chin towards the ceiling. "I'll leave on the first plane back."

"Amelia."

She looked at him. Alfred held out a lady's navy blue winter coat. "Give me your bomber jacket," he said. "For your protection, I don't want anyone making a connection between us."

"But . . ."

Alfred's mouth drew a thin line.

Amelia bit her lip. "Dang nabbit!" She furiously removed her jacket and threw it at him. "I want it back when I leave, you jerk," she said as she grabbed the coat from him and left his office.

After putting on the coat, she walked outside for some fresh air. She breathed a cloud into the cold air and then kicked a rock. "I never get to do anything exciting," she grumbled. "Stupid brother! Always wanting to kibosh my fun."

"Look out!" someone shouted, knocking her to the ground as a bomb suddenly exploded nearby.

Amelia screamed and become aware for the first time of the wailing air raid siren. She coughed from the debris's dust and felt someone jerk her to her feet.

"Why haven't you found some shelter?" Arthur yelled. Amelia recognized him immediately from his previous visits to the United States. "Get going. Hurry!"

He turned to leave and she grabbed his arm to stop him. "Please help me. I came here with the USO, and I don't know where to go," she said.

Without saying a word, Arthur nodded and grabbed her hand. He led her directly to a shelter nearby. He didn't let go of her hand once during the entire attack nor did he push her away when she hid her face in his arms each time a bomb exploded nearby. After the attack, Arthur led her back to where they'd met.

"There you are!" Alfred called, running up to them. "The others were wondering . . ." he trailed off when he saw his dust-covered sister.

"Take better care of your people," Arthur said, tugging her hand toward Alfred.

She stumbled over to her brother, and he caught her easily. Amelia looked back at Arthur and bit her lip. _Was I only an annoyance to him all that time? _she wondered.

Arthur noticed her expression and looked down. "That came out wrong," he said, looking apologetic. "What I meant was please educate them on the situation here." He winced and clutched left arm. Blood had soaked through his uniform's jacket sleeve.

Amelia gasped. "Holy mackerel! Did that happen when you saved me? Let me take care of that."

Alfred tightened his grip on Amelia. "We have medical personnel for that," he said curtly. "You're just with the USO. So go back there and stay there."

Arthur stared at Alfred like he was seeing something he'd never seen before.

Amelia didn't have to look to guess the expression on her brother's face. "Don't blow a fuse," she said quietly.

Arthur turned to leave. "Well then, I'll see the doctor and join you and the others later."

Alfred released Amelia and followed after him. She grabbed his arm before he could get far. "Our brother just saved my life and got hurt in the process. The least you could do is thank him," she said quietly.

"I've told you a hundred times," Alfred replied. "He's _**not**_ our brother."

Amelia scowled. While that was always technically true, and more so since the Revolutionary War, she didn't like that Alfred insisted so strongly on it. _What's wrong with 'pretending' to have familial bonds? s_he thought. _Arthur has been kind and loving to us many times despite our differences and arguments. _"Thank you! I'll never forget you!" she called to Arthur.

He turned to wave a feeble goodbye before Alfred grabbed him around the shoulder. Arthur cried out, and Alfred released him.

"Sorry buddy, I forgot," he said, laughing.

Arthur looked like he was about to keel over from the pain.

Her brother glared over his shoulder at Amelia.

She glared back. _You're always pushing Arthur away and hurting him, but then you hate it when he gives his attention to anyone else for more than a minute, _she silently lectured her brother. Amelia sighed and watched Alfred disappear into the building he'd come out of and then watched as Arthur followed him.

"Ba-dump!" She clutched her chest. _What on earth was that? _"Ba-dump! Ba-dump!" Her heart felt like it was going to pound out of her ribcage. She stared at the ground and panted for breath. When she looked up again and caught one last glimpse of Arthur as he disappeared into the building, her heart started beating even more wildly.

_Is this a delayed reaction to the bombing? Am I just now getting the heebie-jeebies from it? _She panted harder, trying to catch her breath, then hurried to the USO's medical station, telling herself to not have a heart attack and die before she had gotten there.

" . . . sugar," Arthur said, snapping Amelia out of her world of nostalgia.

"Yes?" she said, her heart in her throat.

"Add this sugar," he repeated, handing her the container and the spoon, "and stay focused."

"Sorry," Amelia said, mixing in the sugar.

Arthur continued to add ingredients, then told her to knead the dough.

She started vigorously working the mixture.

"Not like that," Arthur scolded, gently pushing her aside, "A light touch like this . . ." He kneaded it for a moment, then grabbed her hand and put it on top of the dough. He then put his hand over hers to guide her.

Amelia felt the blood rise in her cheeks. _He's just showing you how to make scones properly, that's all_. _Don't read too much into him touching your hand until he actually says something like 'I like you'._ She stared intensely at the dough and concentrated on not putting too much power into her hands and arms.

After a minute of showing her, Arthur removed his hand and stepped back slightly to watch her work.

Amelia was positive at this point that she was as red as a tomato. _Why __**not**__ tell him now?_ she reasoned to herself. _No, the mood's not right. Arrgh! Why is this so tough to do? _She folded the dough over and started kneading it again.

_Dang it! I'll just confess, and if he rejects me, he rejects me_, she said to herself. Amelia felt a strand of hair lift and a tickling sensation.

She turned to find Arthur playing with her hair and felt her cheeks grow warm. _Wha__t was I gonna to say again?_

* * *

**A/N**

**Yes. I included an actual recipe for scones here. I hope it didn't interrupt the flow of the story. Please let me know if it did, and I'll find a way to change that. I just remember reading a story somewhere where the couple flirted using cooking, and I wanted to try it out. Please also note that I didn't include the entire recipe's ingredients as that would have interrupted the flow.**

***That's 'miles' and '2 feet' for those of us who don't use the metric system. :P**

**Yay! _Hell's Kitchen_ reference! I just love watching that show. Gordon Ramsey blows his top at the cooks almost as much as UK does at France (maybe more). XD**

**FYI, the term USO stands for United Service Organization. Founded in** **1941, the USO's mission is to provide morale, welfare and recreation-type services to uniformed US military personnel. Often, entertainers will travel with this non-profit organization.**

**I think most of the 1930-40s terminology I used was self-explanatory, but in case it wasn't: **

**Chew out = scold. **

**Cool down = Calm down. **

**Spook = spy. **

**Applesauce = nonsense. **

**Dang nabbit = An interjection of disappointment. **

**Kibosh = put a stop to [something]. **

**Holy mackerel! = An interjection of surprise. **

**Blow a fuse = lose your temper. **

**Keel over = fall over**

**Heebie-jeebies = jitters. **

Omake:

Alfred: *flipping rapidly through the channels*

Matthew: Slow down, Al. You can't even see what's on if you go that fast.

Alfred: Sure I can! I'm awesome like that.

Matthew: Sure you are.

Alfred: *sniffs the air* Shouldn't we be smelling pancakes by now?

Matthew: *shrugs*

Alfred: I wonder what's taking those two so long with the food.

Matthew: *blushes and looks away* Yeah. I wonder. *thinks* _I can't wait to hear 'Melia's explanation. I wonder if she's confessed to Arthur yet . . ._

Alfred: *stops on a channel* What the heck? Shameless? First The Office, then Super Nanny and now this? Seriously, Artie's gotta stop copying me.

Matthew: *facepalms*

Note: for those who don't know, all of those shows were originally British shows. The United States is the copycat.


	5. Blackmail for Breakfast

**Ch. 5: Blackmail for Breakfast**

Arthur watched as Amelia kneaded the dough. He'd done a pretty decent job focusing on the recipe, but now he was distracted by her hair. It wasn't straight, but it wasn't curly either. It seemed to be something in-between a mix of curls and waves. Arthur found himself thinking of a time when he'd visited the United States and watched wheat fields on a warm afternoon hypnotically flow like an ocean as the wind blew through them. He was close enough to Amelia that he could detect the scent of roses and vanilla as it floated off her hair.

_How is that possible?_ he wondered. _The shampoo she used earlier has a masculine musky-type smell._

One curl drifted away from the rest, and without thinking, Arthur reached out and twirled it around his fingertip.

Amelia stopped kneading and looked at him, her cheeks a dark shade of pink and eyes wide.

Arthur suddenly became aware of his behavior and tugged lightly on the wayward curl. "You should have tied your hair back before you started," he scolded, tugging again. "It might get in the food."

"Oh r-r-right," Amelia said. She looked at her hands. They were covered in flour and dough. She got a sly look on her face. "Could you tie it back for me?" she asked. "I think there's a ponytail holder in my back pocket." She lifted her hip slightly.

Arthur looked down at her jeans' back pocket and blushed.

She laughed. "Or one might be in the front pocket of my bag."

Arthur quickly opened the front pocket and grabbed the elastic tie out of it. "I'm not sure how to do this," he said, his hands hovering behind her head.

"Remember when everyone used to wear their hair long and tied it back?" she said. "It's like that only up and high instead of low. Although if you can't handle it, a low pony will do."

Arthur felt a fire of competitiveness rise at her challenge, unintentional or intentional. He scooped all her hair into his hands and noticed that it was as soft as it looked.

"Ah!" Amelia exclaimed. Dough squeezed between her fingers.

Arthur loosened his grip on her hair. "Sorry. Did I pull too hard?"

"Nah. Your hands tickled my neck, that's all," she said.

Arthur felt the blood rush to his cheeks. He re-tightened his grip and pulled the hair through the tie. It was a lot easier to do than he thought it would be. After he felt satisfied it would stay up, he pulled his hands away. "How does that feel?" _Strange. Why are my hands tingling?_ he thought as he flexed them.

"F-f-fine," she replied. "It felt . . . feels just fine."

Arthur noticed that her cheeks' pinkness had traveled to her ears. He smiled privately and moved back beside her. "You can stop kneading," he said. "Now you just pat it out until it's about 2 centimeters thick and it's a round shape that's about 17 to 20 centimeters . . . sorry, I mean, 7 to 8 inches, and then it's ready to be cut and baked."

She began patting out the dough as he directed while he grabbed a scone-cutter and a baking sheet. He cut one and was about to put it on the sheet when Amelia stopped him.

"I think you need to grease the tray first," she said. "Otherwise, they'll stick to it."

"Of course, it needs that," Arthur said. _So that's why they're sometimes difficult to remove from the baking dish sheet thingy._ "I was just testing you to see if you really were as 'good' at this as Matthew said you were."

Amelia sent him a crooked smile. "Well, my methods are slightly messy." She grabbed the stick of butter and rubbed it on the sheet. "If we had parchment paper, we could use that also, but I think this will make the scones golden and tasty on the bottom so I personally would prefer it."

"I prefer either method actually," he said. _How on earth can you use parchment paper without it catching on fire? Is it coated with something? _

"What's next?" she said.

"Oh, um," Arthur set the scone on the sheet. Then he broke some eggs and whipped them. "Put this on top and bake them for about an hour."

"An hour? Are you sure I need to bake them that long?" Amelia asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes. I cook everything for at least an hour," he replied. "How else can you make sure it's done?"

She smiled and nodded. "So you take them out when they look done?"

Arthur nodded. "Well, I need to catch up on _The Times_ in the dining room. Unless you want help with something else."

"You are so sweet," Amelia said, washing her hands and then shuffling through her bag, "but I've got it . . . except do you have any coffee?"

"I think your brother left some last time he was here," Arthur said, pointing to cupboard where the canister had been shoved as he headed for his paper.

Ten minutes later, after Arthur finished reading about the latest football game, he heard the door to the dining room open.

Amelia was balancing a teacup in one hand and a teapot in the other.

Arthur jumped up.

"I've got it," she said. She set them both down in front of him. "I hope you don't mind that I used some of your Darjeeling tea that I found. Oh! I gave the boys some coffee. If you'd prefer them in here . . ."

Arthur thought about the Oriental rug in the lounge and nodded.

Amelia turned and walked toward the lounge. "I don't care if it's not over," he heard her yell, "Get your butts in there or no breakfast! And no spilling on the way!"

Alfred and Matthew came into the dining room, concentrating on their cups. Once they'd settled, they begged Arthur for parts of the paper he had finished.

Arthur tried to concentrate on the financial news but had a hard time doing so since the two brothers were arguing over whether it was called "football" or "soccer". His thoughts wandered to Amelia cooking in the kitchen. He sipped his tea, and a fuzzy memory surfaced.

Years ago, he had stayed at Alfred's house when the world conference was hosted in Washington, D.C. Alfred had made the meals a few times before Arthur insisted that Alfred didn't know what he was doing and that he should take over. On the last morning before he headed back to the UK, he had come into the dining room and found Alfred already drinking coffee and munching on toast. There had been a teapot in a tea cozy and a teacup waiting in front of the seat beside Alfred.

"That's yours," Alfred had said, pointing then turning back to the _Washington Post_ he had been reading. "All we had was darling tea."

"Darjeeling," Arthur corrected, noting the lemon slices, honey, sugar, milk, and creamer that had been placed beside the teapot._ How unusual for him to think of such details and provide options, especially for tea_._ I know he almost __**never **__drinks it when he has coffee as an option. _He poured a cup and sipped some. It was still hot, fresh, and brewed perfectly.

"Oh yeah," Alfred said. "She said you might like these." He handed Arthur _The Times_ and _The Economist._

"How did you get these from London?" he asked.

Alfred looked up, took a bite of his toast, and shrugged. "I think they sell both of those here?" he said as if he wasn't completely sure.

A young woman came into the dining room just as Arthur had almost finished his tea. She was wearing a strange-looking apron that almost completely covered her and carrying two plates of scrambled eggs, bacon, ham, and hash browns. She set one in front of Arthur and then Alfred. She noticed Arthur's cup was nearly empty, picked up the teapot, and poured him some more.

"Thank you," he said.

The young woman looked embarrassed, blushed, and tucked a blond curl that had escaped her ponytail behind her ear. "You're welcome, Arthur," she said, smiling broadly.

Arthur stared_. _He was astounded by her cheeky attitude.

Alfred cleared his throat.

"Oh right," she said. She grabbed a bottle of Tabasco sauce and ketchup off a nearby table and set them in front of the two men, then pulled some forks, knives and cloth napkins out of the apron's pockets. "If you don't need me anymore, I'm going to go have breakfast with Elizabeta at The Chesapeake Room," she said to Alfred.

"Yeah. See ya," he replied, looking slightly cross with her.

Her blue-gray eyes flashed when she saw his expression. "It's expensive there, y'know," she said. She looked over at Arthur, then back at Alfred as if she was expecting something.

"Okay, **_goodbye_**," Alfred said, shoving some hash browns into his mouth.

She walked over to him and smacked him on the arm. He winced and glared at her as he rubbed his arm. He choked on the hash browns when he tried to say something.

"That's a fine thank you," she said. "Ah, forget it. I'm outta here. By the way, I've decided that we're going shopping after we eat, and I'm going to send the bill to _**you**_." She walked toward the door she'd come in, untying her apron. "Y'know, you could learn some manners from your guest, Al," she said as she disappeared.

Arthur stared after her flabbergasted. None of the help in the UK would have dared talk to him or anyone they worked for like that. "Your maid—or is she your housekeeper?—is very outspoken," he had commented, thinking about how much that was an understatement.

Alfred had scratched his head. "Y'think?" he had asked.

"Yes. I do think so," Arthur had said. "My boss has sacked help for less. Calling guests and masters by their first names? Outrageous!"

Alfred had shrugged. "She's the only _help—_if I can really call her that—I've ever had, so I have no one to compare her to," he had said. "Want some Tabasco sauce or ketchup on those hash browns?"

As the memory faded, Arthur choked on his tea.

"Are you okay?" Matthew asked as he coughed and sputtered.

"I need a glass of water," he said, getting up quickly and going into the kitchen.

Amelia was pulling some scones out of the oven when he entered the kitchen. She picked up the scones with a metal spatula and put them on a plate. "Perfect timing," she said.

Arthur got himself a glass of water and drank it quickly.

"Would you help me carry in the rest of the plates, please?" she asked. "I usually can only handle about two or three at a time." She picked up the plate of scones and a pile of four plates, nodding her head toward a plate of ham and another of eggs.

Arthur set down the glass and blocked her path to the door. She gave him a confused look.

"I remember meeting you," he said. "This isn't the first breakfast you've made for me."

She cringed. "I hope it wasn't nasty, and that's why you remember."

"No. It was delicious," Arthur said quickly. "Why didn't you introduce yourself then?"

Amelia shrugged. "Al didn't want me to," she said. "If I remember right, I'd just gotten back home from an assignment. I was jet-lagged, and he'd woken me out of a dead sleep to beg me to make breakfast because his 'stomach couldn't handle any more', I believe were his exact words. If I remember right, he had promised to introduce me to you at that time but changed his mind at the last second." She shifted to get a better grip on the plate of scones.

"I try to believe him when he says he doesn't introduce me for my own protection, but sometimes I get the feeling maybe Al thinks I might embarrass him or something," she said. She then got a mischievous smile on her face. "Or maybe he might think that some nation might try to hit on me or, I don't know, grope me or something." She winked at Arthur.

He flushed as he remembered that morning. "If _you_ hadn't hugged my arm, then I wouldn't have—"

"Uh-huh," Amelia interrupted, smiling and maneuvering around Arthur. "You're always a proper gentleman. I know. Please grab those plates of eggs and ham? I'd rather not have to make a second trip when I've got help."

Arthur gave up trying to explain himself, grabbed the plates, and followed her to the dining room.

"Gross! You let Artie make those things?" Alfred said as soon as he saw the scones. "They taste like crap! And today, they look weirder than usual."

Matthew said nothing but also cringed slightly.

Amelia set down the pile of plates and the scones, grabbed a chocolate-brown scone and a light brown one. She shoved the darker one in Alfred's mouth and the lighter one in Matthew's. "Eat it!" she commanded forcefully.

Arthur jumped. This was a side of her he hadn't expected.

Alfred obediently chewed the scone, then removed it. "This tastes like mocha-chino!" he said. He snarfed down the rest and reached for another.

Arthur set down the plates and sat down.

"Yeah, I added coffee and chocolate to the dough. Al, use a plate, for crying out loud," Amelia scolded, taking a plate from the pile she'd brought in and setting one in front of each of the men.

"Maple and currants, eh?" Matthew said.

Amelia grimaced. "I wasn't sure about that combination, but it was all I had brought with me."

"It's tasty," Matthew said, taking another bite.

She motioned towards the lightest-colored scones on the serving plate. "You'll probably like those ones best."

Arthur picked one up and bit into it. It had walnuts and tasted like a shortbread cookie. It was also fluffy and moist, one of the best scones he'd ever eaten.

"I added vanilla 'cause that's the only difference between the scone recipe and those shortbread cookies Al's always bringing home from here," she explained.

"It's delicious," Arthur said.

Amelia smiled and sat down. "Well, let's start dishing up the rest before it gets cold," she said.

Alfred and Matthew reached for eggs and ham respectively, dished up and passed each plate.

Arthur tried not to get misty-eyed from the "family" feel this setting had; Alfred would only tease him about it.

"Al, what time are we leaving for the World Conference?" Amelia asked after a few minutes of eating. "I don't want to make you late, so I need to know how much time I have to get ready."

Alfred shoved another scone in his mouth and grabbed the world news section from where Arthur had placed it aside.

"_**Alfred**_," she said.

He looked up.

"I'm still going to get to go watch the Conference, right?" she asked.

"Only recognized nations get to go," he said.

"Well then, since America is recognized, no problem," Amelia said, taking a bite of her breakfast.

Alfred frowned. "_**I'm **_America."

She put down her silverware. "So am _**I,**_" she stated.

"Unofficially," he countered.

"Come on! You promised if I did a good job on my last big assignment, I could go," Amelia said, her voice raising slightly. "Well it was 100% successful."

Alfred sighed. "Two Americas will only confuse everyone."

Tears started to well up in Amelia's eyes. "I've been patiently waiting for years, centuries even, for you to let me be included," she said. "I even bought a nice professional dress to wear to it. I wasn't going to butt in, just listen. You wouldn't even have to introduce me at all if you didn't want to." She covered her face and started to sob softly. "It's not fair," she said through her hands.

Alfred looked uncomfortable. "C'mon Sis, next time, 'kay?"

"That's what you said _last time_," Amelia hissed, looking up, her face red from crying. "I must be nothing to you because even Mattie gets to go every year. You're a stupid, lying jerk, Al!"

Matthew looked back and forth between the squabbling siblings.

"That's because Mattie is his own country," Alfred said. He set down his silverware and let out a sound of indignation. "Grow up. You're acting like a child."

"And you don't?" she retorted. "I've heard about your stupid speeches from Mattie. I've even read some of them. They don't make any sense sometimes. He's also told me about all the childish pranks and fights you all get into."

Alfred looked at Matthew who tugged at his tie and tried blending in with the furniture. "Look, even if you don't go as a nation, how do I explain why I'm bringing a traveling ambassador to the Conference?" Alfred said. "Especially since England's the one hosting?"

""May I propose something?" Arthur asked finally.

The siblings looked at him. Their expressions seemed to say they'd forgotten he was there.

"I am serving afternoon tea near the end of the meeting," he stated. "Some non-nations will be serving it to us. What if Amelia joined them? No other nations know about her, right? She'd blend right in with the non-nation humans. Plus, she could help make these wonderful scones, and for once, even France might not criticize my food."

"Awesome!" Amelia gushed. "Of course _you _would have the perfect plan." She wiped her eyes and finished off her breakfast. She grabbed her plate and headed back to the kitchen, stopping at the door. "Is an hour enough time, or are we leaving sooner than that?" she asked Arthur.

"I haven't said yes," Alfred said.

"Listen, _**Dad**_, Arthur said it was fine," she said, placing a hand on her hip. "He's hosting, so he's in charge, remember?"

"All of the help are members of Britain's Secret Intelligence Service, and they know better than to talk about what happens at these meetings," Arthur added. "No one, nation or non-nation, will be the wiser as to who she is."

Alfred scowled and folded his arms.

Amelia sighed. "Guess I'll just have to go with 'Plan B' then, while you attend the meeting," she said, waving her free hand dramatically. "I've always wanted to go shopping in London anyway. I was going to start with this store I heard about, One of a Kind, for some new vintage items, then I guess I'll head over to Louis Vuitton after that."*

Alfred blanched but continued to try to look stubborn.

Amelia noticed this and smiled.

Arthur rubbed his chin. Interesting.

"After that I'll spend the rest of the afternoon in Harrods—I've always wanted to go there—and Elizabeta told me I _**have to**_ shop at Alexander McQueen and Burberry* before I leave," she continued, eyes focused on Alfred. "I'm sure I'll find plenty to do in town while you're in that meeting, but I guess I could hop over to Paris and shop there, too."

Alfred shifted anxiously in his chair but kept his arms crossed.

"That won't be necessary," Arthur said. "I can give you a list of all the most exclusive and expensive shops here and even write a letter of recommendation for any of the elite shops."

Alfred turned green.

Arthur smiled at this reaction.

"Thank you!" Amelia said. "I've even got a platinum credit card too. It's Al's account, but since I'm his 'ambassador', I don't have any limits on the credit line." She started for the door.

"I'll just report the card as stolen," Alfred threatened.

His sister turned around again. "You do have that option." She mocked a thoughtful look. "All the same, I could always use the Swiss bank account you can't remember the password to that you made me memorize."

Alfred turned gray.

"I've also heard that at some of the more exclusive shops, you can have them send the bill to the residence or boss of whomever charges it," she continued. "I'm _**unofficially**_ America, so I guess I'll have to tell them to use the name Alfred Foster—"

"Do you have a uniform that will fit her handy?" Alfred interrupted, leaping across the table and grabbing Arthur by the arm.

* * *

**A/N**

***I don't really know what shops are exclusive or expensive in London (I don't have money to burn like some well-to-do people have), but I know that One of a Kind is one of the more pricey vintage shops in London. No matter where you go, Louis Vuitton is expensive: one handbag can cost almost $8,000. At Harrods, a woman could spend £3,750 ($5,891) on just one dress. Alexander McQueen can set a gal back £2,240.00 ($3,518), and Burberry has dresses as expensive as £2,395.00 ($3,762), and one of their skirts costs £1,895.00 ($2,976) all by itself! That's not including any blouses or accessories. Alfred doesn't know much about fashion, but he's heard enough about it in New York to know that his sister is purposely picking the most expensive shops in London.**

**You had a lot of author's notes last time, so I'll keep this one short. **

**Usually, I can't think of a title for my chapter until after I've finished it. I thought this was mysterious until I noticed something. Maybe you did too? Some of the titles refer to whatever happens at the end of the chapter. Not all my chapter titles are like this though (in fact, once I noticed this, I made a concerted effort to **_**not**_** title my chapters this way). The weird part is that while sometimes it **_**does **_**refer to something that happens at the end, it **_**also**_** kinda refers to the chapter content. Hmm. -_-; **

Omake:  
*the group walks toward a Rolls Royce waiting for them at the gate to Arthur's house*  
Arthur: That was a wonderful breakfast, Amelia.  
Amelia: Thank you.  
*the chauffeur waiting inside the car gets out and opens the door for them*  
Alfred: I don't get it; I thought you had your own car, Artie.  
Arthur: I do, but I have some paperwork to look over before the World Conference, *taps the briefcase he's holding* and I used the chauffeur service that my government uses because I'd rather not have any of you drive.  
Alfred: What's the big deal? Your car isn't that hard to drive and we all know how—*suddenly looks as if he realizes something* Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait a minute . . . We're supposed to _prepare_ for the Conference?  
Matthew & Arthur: *facepalm and sigh*

Okay this omake wasn't as funny as the last few (if you thought they were funny). =_= sorry


	6. And Pretty Maids All in a Row

******Ch. 6: And Pretty Maids All in a Row**

"Aren't you finished yet?" Alfred called through the door.

"Chill. There's a lot of buttons," Amelia called back.

Alfred bit his nails. Arthur raised an eyebrow as he observed the other nation. Alfred had seemed less nervous during the car ride over to where the World Conference was being held. Now he was a wreck.

On the way to the Conference, Amelia had seemed very calm and a little self-satisfied. She'd whispered to Matthew for most of the trip. Matthew had looked over to Arthur a few times, so he had guessed their discussion was about what had happened last night and this morning.

Arthur hypothesized that Amelia must have whisper-sessions all the time with Matthew because Alfred hadn't tried pry at all. He had just pointed his camera out the window and snapped random pictures. Arthur could see now that was all a ruse to hide his discomfort in the whole arrangement.

_I still can't tell whether Matthew's expression was disappointment or just how he looks when he processes information_, Arthur mused as he watched Alfred pace the floor.

The door finally opened, and Amelia and the Secret Intelligence Service officer, who had been helping her, stepped out. The SIS officer was dressed as a "maid". She finished tying the full-size frilly white apron on Amelia and fluffed the bow so it looked right.

"Thanks Mary," Amelia said, giving her a traditional Jones' thumbs-up.

_She's made friends already? _Arthur marveled.

Mary smiled, returned a timid thumbs-up, and left.

_Arthur rolled his eyes. ____Just bloody wonderful. My people are picking up the silly habits of silly nations._

Just like the SIS officer, Amelia was dressed in a traditional Victorian-style maid uniform. The dress was all black except the white collar, petticoat, apron, and the little maid-cap (the tiara-style rather than the ruffled bun-style). The sleeves puffed out slightly at the shoulders then tapered down from there. They covered the entire arm down to the wrists where a white cuff accented them. Unlike a traditional Victorian-style uniform, though, the skirt only went about 10 centimeters* below the knee instead of to the floor to allow the wearer more mobility.

"Whoa, you pervert Artie," Alfred said after staring for a moment.

Arthur crimsoned. "I beg your pardon? What do you mean?"

"I didn't know you were into maid cafes," Alfred said. "I thought that was just Kiku's thing."

Arthur blinked. _Does he think that the SIS officers are merely cosplaying?_

"My people need to look the part, you gobshite. Otherwise they'll look like your 'men in black' and set everyone on edge," he said, smacking Alfred on the backside of his head. "This is a slightly altered version of the United Kingdom's traditional maid uniform. Japan borrowed the design from us, not vice versa."

Alfred rubbed his head.

"How do I look?" Amelia asked nervously, smoothing out the apron.

"I told ya already: Like someone from Kiku's Akihabara district, an otaku's dream girl," Alfred jumped in to say before Arthur could say anything, folding his arms and trying to look indignant. "I still think this is a bad idea—"

"Shopping . . . credit card," Amelia interrupted.

Alfred scowled. "Dang it Ames. Every time you don't get your way, I always end up paying for it. Literally. I'm still paying for that last time. Geez! I can't believe I'm letting you do this just to save having to explain to our boss why I'd need a loan if I didn't."

Amelia shrugged. "It's your call, Al."

"Well, I guess there's no helping it," Alfred said, sighing. "At least, you're not wearing pig-tails with that outfit. Then you really would look like a 'maid-chan'. But that hairstyle, I dunno, seems old-fashioned."

Amelia touched the "Gibson tuck" hairdo her hair was fashioned in. All of the "maids" working at the conference had styled their hair in the classic, Victorian hairstyle. "Well I think I think my hair looks beautiful and elegant, and the fabric in this outfit feels wonderful. It's specially made, isn't it?"

"For affairs such as this," Arthur said, nodding.

"Whatever. I'm going into the meeting room first," Alfred said. "Don't blow your cover."

"Don't worry, bro. I can handle this; I'm a heroine, after all!" Amelia said, smiling a million-dollar smile and flashing another thumbs-up.

Alfred returned the gesture a little less enthusiastically. He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked down the hall towards the conference room, mumbling something about trying to not regret this whole affair.

Amelia put her finger up to her chin. "Hmm . . . weird . . . The game usually puts him in a good mood."

"Game?" Arthur asked.

"Haven't you noticed?" Amelia asked as she started to laugh. "Sometimes I imitate him when we talk to each other. It's a private joke we have. Apparently someone we both know mistook me for him a couple of times many, many years ago. Actually I was . . ." She glanced over at Arthur and coughed.

"Never mind. Seriously though, will I pass as an English maid?" she asked Arthur. She twirled around and part of her skirt fluttered up, flashing some of her petticoat.

Arthur felt his heart palpitate.

"How do I look?"

"Adorable," he blurted out without thinking.

Amelia stopped her twirling and blushed. She looked down and played with the hem of her apron. "Thank you," she said, her face turning pink.

Arthur felt his face match hers and cleared his throat. "Well, that's what Alfred should have said."

"Ah, don't mind Al," she said. "He just believes in saying exactly what's on his mind. I know he cares about me; he just has a weird way of showing it. I can't tell you how many times he's rescued me from unwanted attention whenever we've traveled together. It's how he says he loves me."

"Miss Emily Clark?" a "maid" asked as she walked up.

Amelia nodded.

"Will you please follow me? It's time to start preparing the refreshments," the maid said.

Amelia turned to follow the "maid".

"Emily Clark?" Arthur asked._ How many pseudonyms does she have?_

"Yeah. I made up a new one, so we could reuse Amy Smith later," she said. "It's close enough to my real name that if Al slips up, hopefully no one will notice. When I was coming up with last names, Al suggested Clark 'cause he likes Superman. I didn't mind the reference either."

"Miss Clark?" the "maid" pressed.

"Be right with ya," Amelia said and then turned to Arthur. "Don't say or do anything exciting until I get there," she said to him quietly before heading toward the kitchen.

Within 20 minutes of the start of the World Conference, Arthur had already gotten into an argument with France. And all that had happened was that lunch had been served.

France had managed to convince Arthur to let him bring lunch, but when that lunch meant only fruit, cheese, and a salad, some of the other nations complained they were still hungry.

Arthur had asked a messenger to send word to move up the afternoon tea he was going to serve; France had laughed at the suggestion of Arthur preparing any food at all.

"My people have already started making it," Arthur had said. "I don't want to waste food."

"If zis tea is truly made by English cooks, it _**will be**_ wasting food," France had countered. And so started the argument.

"I'm hosting, you wanker," Arthur yelled.

"Well, I just don't sink you can pull off an edible afternoon tea," France said.

"I agreed to let you handle lunch, nothing else, stupid wine bastard," Arthur shouted. "You had your chance, and you made a complete pig's ear of it."

"My chefs are still here," France said. "Why not use zem?" France stood and clapped a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "Listen, Angleterre, use my chefs for once. Food poisoning doesn't become any of us."

_That clenched it. _Arthur punched him in the face.

"Aiya. Stop it you two . . . so immature," China said, rolling his eyes.

"So much fun every year," Russia said, smiling.

"S-s-s-stop it," Matthew cried, trying to pull Arthur off of France.

"Take back what you said!" Arthur yelled, landing a few more blows.

"Never!" France declared, countering with some of his own. "I'd rather die!"

Alfred suddenly stepped between them and effectively held them both back. "Food's here," he said, nodding toward a group of "maids" and "butlers" behind him.

Arthur and France separated themselves from Alfred's grip and composed themselves, straightening their clothes.

The staff started placing tiered tea-trays with a variety of sandwiches, cakes, and Amelia's scones on them on the table between each nation, then began setting plates and teacups with saucers in front of each nation.

Kiku began to tremble slightly with excitement. Suddenly he jumped out of his seat. He pulled a camera out of nowhere and started snapping pictures of the "maids".

Some of them giggled and posed until the "head butler" cleared his throat; they quickly returned to their work. "Please help yourselves, ladies and gentlemen," the head butler said. "Maids will be around to serve your tea momentarily. There is self-serve coffee at the table over here."

Alfred and Matthew went over to a side table the butler had gestured to and poured themselves some coffee.

No one else moved. "The sandwiches and cakes look right," Austria said finally, "but the scones look a little strange."

Alfred grabbed a mocha-chino one, and Matthew grabbed a maple-and-currant one. Both then piled on the other items. Alfred bit into the scone and chewed appreciatively. While seeing Alfred eat the scones that he always complained he was only eating because he was starving was a miracle in-and-of-itself, not a single nation touched the food.

"I'm not convinced," France said. "We all know Alfred has no taste buds."

"I know, like, let's totally make someone be the poison, I mean, taste tester," Poland suggested.

"Good idea, da. But why are you all looking at me?" Russia said.

"Well, you survived Busby's chair," France said.

Arthur threw a pen at France. "He didn't 'survive' it, he destroyed it," he said.

"No problem. I can handle it," Russia said walking over to Latvia. He grabbed the smaller nation and shoved a scone into his mouth. "Eat," he commanded the trembling Baltic state.

Latvia nervously did as he was told.

All of the nations held their breaths.

Amelia folded her arms.

Latvia swallowed. "It's delicious. I love cherries and almonds!"

Amelia smiled slightly.

All of the other nations started dishing up and eating.

"Are you sure that's what's in them?" Belgium asked. "I taste raspberries and white chocolate."

"Mine tastes like oranges and cranberries," Feliciano said.

"No. They're made vith cinnamon and pecans," Germany observed.

_She added more flavors?_ Arthur mused.

"You probably hired a French chef to make zese," France suggested between bites. "No Englishman could be zis creative."

"Sorry to disappoint you, but the chef's _**mine**_," Arthur snapped. Matthew and Alfred choked on their food. "Er, I mean, the chef is English-trained," Arthur clarified as he noticed Amelia stifle a laugh.

The staff set up an extra table full of items to refill the trays, and then left, leaving behind Mary and Amelia, who nodded to Arthur.

"Everyone, we can continue for with the Conference," Arthur said. "The two maids who have stayed behind have top-level security clearance and will be providing us with refills of everything. Since I'm hosting, I'll be speaking last. Germany has asked to speak first." He walked over to Amelia. "Try not to say anything to them," he whispered. "Your accent will give you away."

She nodded and moved toward the meeting table with a teapot, looking for anyone who needed refills.

"Vhat is going on?" Germany asked as he fiddled with the projector. "I can't get this thing to show the slide-show on my laptop. I've hooked it up properly, so it should . . ."

"Let me help you, Ludwig-san," Kiku said, walking over to the projector. They both argued over the best presentation program to use and fiddled with the hook-up attachment.

"I have met you somewhere before, da?" Arthur overheard Russia say as Amelia refilled his cup. "Haven't we met in California last summer?"

She smiled.

Arthur held his breath. _Don't say anything_.

"I bet you say that to all the ladies, you charmer," Amelia said with an English accent.

Arthur's mouth dropped open. _How?_ It wasn't a perfect accent, but it was close enough that a non-English speaker wouldn't be able to tell the difference.

Alfred saw his expression, scribbled out a note, and passed it to the other maid to deliver to Arthur. "She watches those damn BBC shows all the time," he'd written. "Annoys the hell out of me. I had to buy her a DVD player and her own TV, so she'd leave mine alone. Along with that, she's crazy about Hollywood, acting, accents, and all that . . . even more than me . . . so that's probably why she can do that accent."

"Do not be coy with me, miss," Russia said. "You look like моя темноволосая лисица." Russia stared at Amelia. "It has been many years, da. Вы изменились мало, но . . . Вы не признают твой Иван?"

Arthur flushed slightly at what little bits of Russian he could understand. _What is Russia implying?_

Russia looked confused and glanced down at his clothes. "Но я появляюсь же, как я был тогда," he said.

Arthur noticed that Alfred looked a little tense as he tried to overhear the conversation. _Did Alfred even understand what Russia had said? _

"I beg your pardon, sir," Amelia said in her new accent, "but I don't speak a word of Polish."

Russia blinked. "Da. It is obvious."

Arthur let out a sigh of relief. He was positive she'd say Russia was speaking German and give her nationality away. Everyone knew Americans don't know what other languages sound like, not even to guess accurately, but an English citizen might guess Russia had spoken one of the Eastern European languages.

Alfred also let out a sigh of relief and then proceeded to go back to stuffing his face.

Amelia curtsied and moved to the next nation with an empty cup. Russia continued to watch her, and that made Arthur anxious.

"No, that goes in this USB port and this goes in that one," Kiku was saying. Suddenly the chart on Germany's laptop appeared up on the screen that had been assembled earlier.

"Danke, Kiku," Germany said. He turned his attention to the gathered nations. "Now ve are not pointzing fingers at anyone, but a certain nation has had a cold und he has even given the sniffles to several other nations. Ve in Deutschland just want reassurance that this ist nicht einother Great Depression."

Everyone looked at America whose eyes had glazed over the moment the chart had popped up.

"Hmm? Oh that. Don't worry guys," Alfred said, perking up at the attention. "I've been seeing a shrink and taking meds for that."

He laughed. No one joined in. Arthur saw Amelia roll her eyes. Apparently, he had told this joke many times before.

"Heh. Sorry," Alfred said, scratching his head. "Seriously, though, have I showed any signs of a cold while I've been here?"

"Vell, not really," Germany stated.

_It's true,_ Arthur mused. _I've seen no signs of illness while Alfred has been here, nor have I felt any effects of being around someone who had one. Perhaps the medicine Alfred mentioned is actually for the cold, and it's working?_

Suddenly Amelia sneezed, covering her mouth and nose barely in time. "Excuse me," she said, pulling a handkerchief out of her apron pocket. She turned away to wipe her nose and then popped something in her mouth from her other pocket.

Arthur noticed that Lithuania furrowed his brow as he watched her do this.

"Gesundheit," Germany said.

Amelia sheepishly nodded and thanked him.

"Don't worry guys," Alfred continued, glancing over at Amelia before giving a thumbs-up and a winning smile to the assembled nations. "I'm already practically over that cold. It's normal to get one every 20 years or so, right?"

Some murmurs came from the group.

"That reminds me," he stated, "I've come up with the most awesome plan for all of us getting over a cold all at once, especially when we all get one at the same time. It's simple too: We pool all our money together in a giant piggy bank, and then split it up according to country size."

"That's a terrible idea," Switzerland interrupted. "I'd be left with next to nothing, and Ivan, Matthew, you, and Yao would get almost all of it. No way I'm giving you any of my money."

"Alfred, just concentrate on getting out of your own messes," Arthur said.

Several nations nodded in agreement. Alfred laughed nervously.

"So now, moving onto my second point," Germany said. After everyone looked back at Germany, Alfred got up and got some more food and coffee, having cleaned out his tea-tray.

Across the room, Arthur noticed Amelia discretely slip Hungary a note. Hungary read it, looked up at her, and smiled. _If Alfred really restricted her contact with other nations, how on earth did they become friends?_ he wondered.

"Warm up your cup, sir?" Mary said.

Arthur jumped. "Yes. Thank you," he said and then looked back to where he'd last seen Amelia.

"Vhat do you think, Großbritannien?" Germany said.

Arthur noticed France was asking Amelia a question and felt irritated at this exchange.

"Arthur?"

"What? Sorry?" Arthur asked, looking at Germany.

He raised an eyebrow. "Ve all should move towards more fuel-efficient machinery und vehicles, ja?" he repeated.

"Oh yes, definitely," Arthur said, scolding himself for being distracted.

"PERVERT!" GOOOONNG!

Arthur turned toward the commotion at the same time as the other nations to see Amelia panting and glaring below an empty chair, her hair coming undone. She was holding a dented tea-tray approximately in the spot where France's head had previously been. The nations closest to where she was standing looked at the floor and covered their mouths.

Alfred looked up from his food. "Ah shit," he said quietly, face-palming.

* * *

**A/N**

**You really ****_can_**** customize a variety of different flavors using a simple scone recipe. It's up to you ****how creative you get (just be careful b/c some combinations don't mix well).**

**As you all know, a cold = economic crisis or a recession. Medicine would be recovery efforts, ****business/commercial growth or money. **

**In case you were wondering: in my head-canon I think it's standard practice for the nations to make efforts to call each other by their human names when non-nations are present. To the nations though, nation name and human name is interchangeable. I'm telling this from Arthur's ****POV (3rd person of course) and so he doesn't really call other nations by their first names that often, except his former family and good friends, of course.**

***Approximately 4 inches for us non-metric users. ;P**

"**Excuse me, haven't we met in California last summer?" has been used by KGB (and its current replacement) as code for identifying a fellow spy (especially in the United States). Another ****Russian spy would have answered, "No, I think it was the Hamptons."**

**Arthur's Slang:**

**gobshite = loud-mouthed person who talks a lot, but nothing with any value.**

**wanker = An idiot, a stupid, annoying or ineffectual person (yes, another way to call someone an idiot, only this expression conveys contempt for the person you're insulting). Someone who shows off too much and/or is overly proud of himself.**

**berk = idiot, this one implies a degree of clumsiness.**

**pig's ear = a mess; a poor job. Probably comes from the phrase "you can't make a silk purse from a sow's ear."**

**Translations:**

**моя темноволосая лисица = my dark-haired vixen (or fox)**

**Вы изменились мало, но . . . Вы не признают твой Иван? = You changed a little, but . . . you do not recognize your Ivan? **

**Но я появляюсь же, как я был тогда, = But I appear the same as I did back then.**

**Danke = Thank you.**

**Gesundheit = literally "health", but it's a common response to a sneeze for Germans (and some Americans too).**

**Großbritannien = Great Britain**

**Interesting fact about my title: after I had finished this chapter and titled it, I got curious about the nursery rhyme I felt inspired to use. I found out that it is widely accepted by most historians that the "maids" in "Mary Mary Quite Contrary" actually refer to an early form of guillotine that "Bloody Mary" used at several of the public executions she held during her reign. It was originally called a "Maiden" and was later shortened to "maid". I found this both ironic and fitting at the same time (seeing that France has succumbed to a blow from a pretty "maid"). Is it morbid of me that this new information makes me LOL? ^_^;**

******If you liked what you read, please let me know in a review. Faves and alerts really tickle me pink. If you have some concrit for me, please let me know as well (you can leave it in a review or PM me, I'll be happy for it either way). If you didn't like what you read, thank you for taking the time to read this far ^_^**

Omake:

Seychelles: *looks down at France and covers her mouth and thinks*_ Gosh, I hope he's all right._

Monaco: *looks down at France and covers her mouth with one hand*_ I wonder what stupid thing big __brother Francis did to make this silly English maid hit him._

Lithuania: *looks down at France and thinks*_ Why did she hit him? I know I shouldn't laugh, but he kinda looks funny lying there on the floor..._

Poland: *looks down at France and covers his mouth and thinks* _Pfft. He totally looks like a dork right now—Wait. He had better not be faking so he can, like, look up my skirt or something._

((Yeah. These were the 4 nations closest to where France was sitting.))


	7. Death by Smooshie

**Ch. 7: Death by Smooshie: Why France _Always_ Surrenders**

Arthur ran over to where the other nations were gathering. "Please stand aside," he said, pushing his way to the front.

A nearly comatose France was sprawled out on the floor, a goose egg already forming on his forehead.

Amelia glared down at him.

Alfred pried the now-concave tea-tray out of her hands and set it on the table.

Amelia blinked and looked up as she noticed the crowd for the first time. She looked down again at France and clapped her hands to her mouth. "Oh no. What have I done?" she said through her hands.

Arthur was glad that her hands garbled her American accent. He grabbed her by the hand and made her sit down. "You haven't blown your cover yet," he whispered to her. "Don't say another word until you can be calm enough to maintain your Queen's English."

Amelia nodded.

"She's still a little in shock," Arthur told the others. "I'm giving her a moment to compose herself." _ I bloody hope they'll all accept that excuse_. "In the meantime, did anyone see what happened?" he asked.

The nations sitting closest to France shook their heads._ What a time for everyone to actually be paying attention to the discussion,_ he groaned internally.

"Excuse me," Russia said, raising a gloved hand. "I saw what happened." No one dared ask why he was watching France instead of listening to Germany.

"_**He**_ saw _**her **_coming and gulped down his tea, then pushed the tea-tray farther away from the edge of the table," Russia said, pointing at France and Amelia respectively. "Then he asked her something; I could not hear what. She poured him more tea, set down the teapot and picked up the bottom tray from its setting. She got a surprised look on her face, then a delightfully angry one, and hit him with the tray. I could not see why."

"Non, non, Mademoiselle. Zat is called _Starry, Starry Night_," France intoned, before passing out completely.

Arthur looked down at him.

An opaque cloud escaped France's mouth.

_Dammit. _Arthur knelt down beside the comatose nation, grabbed France's spirit before it could completely leave his body, and pushed it back in. He misjudged how fast it would return and ended up smacking France on the nose. "Wake up, you wanker," Arthur said, trying to cover up his mistake.

France let out a groan but didn't move.

"I donna think that's gonna work," Spain said. "He is muerto para el mundo."

Several other nations nodded.

"I suppose you're right," Arthur said with a nervous laugh. _Spain has no idea how "literally" correct that statement nearly was, _he thought, sweating slightly_._

"Mary, could you inform the doctor in the infirmary of the situation and let him know he has a patient on the way?" Arthur called.

The other "maid" nodded. "Of course, sir. At once," she said and quickly left the room.

Arthur felt more relaxed now that all the non-nations were out of the room. "Alfred, Berwald, would you two carry our sleeping idiot to the doctor?" he said. "Everyone else, let's take a 30-minute break and see if France will come to in the infirmary."

Alfred and Sweden picked up France and carried him out the door.

"Damn. How can someone so skinny be so heavy?" Alfred complained, shifting so that he had a firmer grip on France's shoulders and didn't drop him on his head.

"D'nt kn'w," Sweden said, holding France's legs. "Too m'ny p'str'es?"

The other nations started leaving the room, obviously happy for the break as they chatted with each other.

Russia picked up the dented tea-tray and examined it.

"Ve~ English ladies sure are scary, huh?" Feliciano could be heard saying to Germany as he kept in stride with him.

"Didn't you once say that about my country's vomen?" Ludwig asked.

"Naturally they're scary, you stupid potato-eater," Romano said. "They're all freakishly tall and huge like you."

Germany made a small sound of protest but said nothing in return.

"Ah~! Time for more hug therapy," Feliciano said as the trio left the room. Romano's protests could be heard through the door.

"England, this is not silver, da?" Russia asked, holding up the tray.

Arthur turned to Russia to see what he was referring to. "It's stainless steel, plated with silver, I believe," he replied. "Why?"

Russia smiled and set the tray back on the table. "Just wondering."

Arthur felt uneasy by Russia's question, but he couldn't pinpoint why.

The only sound in the room was a quiet snoring. Both nations turned toward the sound. Greece nodded in his chair.

_How could he sleep through all that? _Arthur looked around the room for Amelia. She had completely disappeared. In all the commotion, he realized he had forgotten to ask her to stay so that he could get her side of what had happened. _Where did that little tornado spin off to now? Good grief. I feel that if I don't keep an eye on her every second, more trouble will undoubtedly occur._

"I think I'll be going now," Russia said, heading out the door. "I need to pick a lovely sunflower I had my eye on earlier before she disappears from my sight."

Arthur nodded and picked up the ruined tea-tray. _The __**real**__ head butler is not going to be happy about his new French-shaped bowl._ He smiled slightly as he recalled how stupid France looked sprawled out on the floor, then sighed. _After returning this to the kitchen, I'll need to visit the infirmary. I have to check on that damn frog first before finding out where Amelia has wandered off to; otherwise, what kind of a host would I be?_

_Perhaps she went to the kitchen to wait with the other 'maids'?_ he thought, feeling hopeful. That would certainly save time: he wouldn't have to wander all over looking for her.

_If she didn't do that, maybe she followed her brother to the infirmary to calm any suspicions he might have about why she hit France over the head . . . __Or to finish the job._ Arthur laughed at his own wishful thinking.

He glanced out a window as he headed for the door, then stopped. Something buzzed in his brain; something was not right. Roses, lavender, daffodils, foxglove, blue forget-me-nots, and snow drops were proliferating in all the gardens. Arthur gasped and dropped the ruined tray.

"There are no sunflowers out there!" he said aloud. Arthur picked up his pace as he headed out the door. He hurried down the hallway past several nations who were chatting, looking at paintings, and enjoying their break.

As he rounded the corner, Arthur was not surprised by what awaited him there. "Bloody hell. That girl gets in more trouble than Feliciano," he said, rushing up to the pair standing by the doors to the gardens.

* * *

**A/N **

_I am planning a future fanfic that I need your help for. It's a GerXfem!Ita (Gakuen Hetalia AU/Gender-bend~Oui, it *is* quite the mash-up). _**_I've created a sorta-Role Play style forum to help out with things like voting for Student Council and helping out with names for nations who haven't received human names yet._************_Please check out my profile for the current poll and links to the forum (come play with me? I'll greatly appreciate it)._**

**Translations:**

**muerto para el mundo = dead to the world (completely unconscious)**

* * *

**:) Mwah ha ha ha! I'm going to let you guess who Arthur saw at the end of the hallway. Obviously one of them is Amelia, but the other person is** . . . **? I'm sure you all know. ;P **. . . **I had originally written them into the end of the chapter, but it just didn't flow in a way that felt natural.**

**I've wanted to use this title ever since I wrote it as a "joke title" once to give myself a laugh. I kinda wanted to keep it, but I know it kinda doesn't fit or make much sense, which is the whole reason why I added the subtitle. (My favorite part of this chapter besides the title is the "French-shaped bowl". That was a true flash of inspiration for funny.**

**FYI I don't know if you noticed, but you will in the next chapter (I just noticed I did this myself only recently). Whomever's POV it is usually uses his/her own name and the names of those they feel comfortable calling by first names. All other nations seem to only be referred to by their nation names.**

**Sorry this chapter is so short (compared to the others). **

Omake:

Alfred: *sees the "Infirmary" sign* Finally. I was getting tired.

Sweden: Actu'lly it wasn't th't far away.

Doctor: We were expecting you; please bring the patient this way *gestures toward a bed*

France: *comes to a little and reaches behind Alfred with "grabby hands"*

Alfred: *feels France grope his rear and lets go of the perverted nation*

France's head as it hits the floor: THUNK!

Alfred: Oops...

Sweden (still holding France's legs) & the doctor: *stare at Alfred*

Alfred: *scratches head* Well, since he's in the right place for something like that, see ya! *hurries out of the infirmary*

**Bonus Omake:**

***Amelia rubs her chin*: What's a "smooshie" anyway?**

***Britannia Angel appears*: They're adorable monster-like plushie creatures that you can construct, deconstruct, and reconstruct again. You never have the same plushie twice.**

**Amelia: Kyaaa! *drools and then huggles Englan...er...Britannia Angel*.**

**Britannia Angel: *tries to wrestle free to no avail* No! I break easily. Stop that. No groping. Stop! Hahaha! I'm ticklish. Stop please!**

**((LOL. Like I said: a "joke title".))**


	8. Vodka and War are Best Served Cold

**A/N This is what's known as a sub-plot. I promise it's relevant to the rest of the story. Most of the subplot takes place in the German Democratic Republic (a.k.a. GDR or East Germany), specifically Berlin (a.k.a. East Berlin to us Westerners) during the Cold War. Rather than write all the chapters set in Berlin entirely in German, I will indicate which parts of the dialog are in German by saying they are speaking in German at the beginning, or by starting the first sentence of the conversation in German (it's safe to assume the rest of the dialog is German). I'll also sprinkle the conversation with German words. Please note I will also do this when the characters are conversing in Russian or any other language. Naturally, at the World Conference, they'll either all be speaking in Esperanto* or English-either way, though, I'm writing it in English. ;P**

**Also, it should be obvious, but this is from Russia's/Ivan's point of view (and a flashback).**

* * *

**Ch. 8: Vodka and War are Best Served Cold**

"Vodka," Ivan said as he sat down on a bar stool.

The bartender nodded, set a glass in front of him, and started pouring.

"Leave the bottle," Ivan said in German.

The bartender raised an eyebrow but did as requested.

Ivan stared at the glass. He'd drink at home if it wasn't for the fact that there was no vodka left there. He'd taken it with him to the World Conference and drank it all already. He made a mental note to send Lithuania out to buy more when he got back to Moscow. This pit-stop in Berlin would have to tide him over until he got home.

Ivan drank the glass dry in less than a minute and poured another glass. _I wonder if this place serves вареники. I could use a full refueling._

He sighed. All would become one with Russia eventually; it was natural that they would resist, but why was he having troubles with his goal right now? His boss had sworn that Afghanistan had invited them to visit, but everyone, including many Afghans, was saying that the Soviet Union had invaded.

During the previous week, Ivan had been enjoying the 1981 World Conference. It was in Italy that year, and the flowers and sunshine had warmed his heart. Then, when the other nations had heard about the problems Ivan had been facing for the last two years (not from Ivan himself, mind you), Poland had been the first to laugh at him.

"You, like, still trust every letter you read!" he'd said, giggling. "And then you jump into things without thinking first. You're so totally uncool!"

Ivan had known immediately who had told everyone else about his problems dealing with Afghanistan's accusations and split personality disorder+. He had pulled out his faucet-pipe and swung at Poland, who had barely dodged in time.

America had gotten in between them. "I thought we agreed on no weapons at the Conference?" the capitalist pig said. "Is it Poland's fault you fell for one of the most classic of blunders: getting involved in a land war in Asia?"

_You're one to talk, having fallen for that twice already_,**‡** Ivan thought sardonically as he swung his faucet-pipe at America.

"Whoa, they're serving ice cream!" America said distractedly and suddenly, turning just in time to dodge the blow.

Ivan wondered if the move was dumb luck or intentional, so he swung again for good measure.

America, without even turning around, easily caught the faucet-pipe in his hand. "C'mon Russia. Put this away. You should take it easy while you're here," America said, turning back to face him. "When are you going to be able to eat ice cream again if you hafta go to that desert wilderness? Look, I know we've had our disagreements in the past . . ."

_Humph. That's an understatement._ Ivan tugged on his faucet-pipe to get it away from America's grip but failed to remove it from the other nation's hand.

"But tell you what, Russia: since you're going to have a hard time soon," he continued, "I'll see if I can convince my boss to whittle his 10 new sanctions against the USSR to just 2 or 3." America flashed an insincere smile at him, gave him a thumbs-up with his free hand, and released the faucet-pipe.

_I don't need your pity_, Ivan thought. He smiled and closed his eyes, putting on what he hoped was his best grateful face. "That is very kind of you. I guess you would know what it's like to have troubles in Asia, _**two-time loser**_."

America laughed and scratched his head. "Yeaaah, sometimes being the hero means you take the fall instead of _**the people who caused the mess in the first place**_," America said, voicing the last part a little louder than the rest.

"I resent that!" France hollered from across the room.**‡**

"Me too, aru!" China chimed in.**‡**

Ivan smiled some more. _I'm not going to acknowledge any blame_. _Technically, I never stepped a foot in those conflicts__._

"And I didn't lose when I helped Korea out with his argument with his sibling," America said with a smile.

"Da, but you didn't win either," Ivan said.

The other nation's expression didn't change, but Ivan thought he saw America's smile twitch a little and felt a little satisfaction about that. "Well, I want to go get some ice cream, so can you hand over **that**?" America said, indicating the faucet-pipe.

Ivan felt the urge to take a third swing at America's head but somehow managed to resist.

"H-h-here, let me take it to the weapons check," Canada said.

Ivan smiled at him. If anyone else had asked but that sweet, quiet nation, he would have swung again. Ivan had happily surrendered it to him. Canada would be one of his favorite pets when everything played out.

"I think I will have some of that ice cream after all," Ivan had said, smiling. Inwardly, he had frowned. America's reaction to his jibe hadn't been as much fun as he hoped it would be; in fact, it was hardly any fun at all.

After the dessert, Ivan had gloomily ignored the rest of the World Conference and everything that was said that didn't pertain to his beloved USSR. He had packed up his bags and had been about to head for home when he had felt thirsty. He had asked Germany and one of his many satellites, Prussia, for some recommendations for a place to go in Berlin and then had stopped at the restaurant they'd suggested.

Ivan poured another glass and thought about how much fun it used to be when he played with America and the nation took him more seriously.

WWII had "officially" ended in the European Theater. His boss, America's boss, and England's boss had just finished dividing up Germany and the rest of the German-occupied countries in a meeting in Potsdam, Germany§. The meeting room had been hot and stuffy, and Ivan had decided enjoy the cool summer night. He had mused that German nights were colder than he expected. He'd blown a breath into the air to see if it formed the ever-familiar cloud of air he saw almost all the time.

"Quite an event, huh?" America had said as he and England had walked up to where Ivan had been standing.

"Da. We all got what we wanted," Ivan replied, "and the best part is that it didn't matter what side I was on." He gave them a pleased smile and was confused when the other two nations didn't return it. In fact, they looked as if his statement bothered them slightly.

"Don't worry. I'll take good care of my new friends and their people," he reassured them.

"As long as you keep your promise to allow democratic elections, I'm satisfied," America said.

England nodded and then yawned. "Well, I'm exhausted," he said, walking away. "See you both later."

"Arthur, wait!" America called.

"Need a place to sleep, da?" Ivan asked.

"No, I . . ." America said, looking uncomfortable at the casualness in Ivan's address. "I just wanted to talk to him about something important. It was kinda urgent."

Ivan stepped closer to America. "Is it about _**that**_?"

"Huh? What are you talking about?" America asked, taking a step back from him.

Ivan ignored his question. "What does it feel like?"

"What does** what **feel like?" America asked. "You're really confusing me."

"You have the power to obliterate any city in the world," Ivan clarified. "What a rough way to play with others." He smiled and looked America straight in the eye.

The other nation was frozen to the spot. Ivan imagined that America's face was pale but couldn't tell from the dim light shining from the buildings.

"How does it feel to play God like that?" he continued, feeling a shiver of pleasure at the thought. "One day, a thriving city—and then the next day: Poof!" He blew into his hands as if sending a feather into flight. "No more enemy. It must be deliciously satisfying."

America took another step away from him and held up his right hand as if to create a barrier between them."What the hell? Are you nuts? I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't play dumb, America," Ivan said. "I know what you have. Your boss told my boss.†"

America gasped.

"Are you going to use them?" Ivan asked, getting excited. "My boss thinks you _**should**_ use them on Japan to end the war faster."

America's eyes grew wide at this, and Ivan smiled, satisfied at this reaction.

"I don't want to . . ." America started to say and then coughed. "Like I said, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Fine, you can just keep saying that, Comrade, if you want to," Ivan said. He started to leave but turned back for a moment. "As soon as you drop them, I'll start attacking the Japanese forces," he said. "They'll crumble easily enough once you drop those things on them. I am curious, though; do you really plan to let them be independent after you crush them?"

"Why wouldn't I?" America asked.

"With the power you now have in your hands, you could be the ruler of the world," Ivan said.

"I'm a hero. I believe in freedom and democracy," America insisted.

"That is how children get disobedient and hurt themselves or others," Ivan countered, "as you are living proof of and as I have seen many times in my own country. My latest brand of government is the only way to control unruly children."

"Wait," America said. "What are you suggesting? You _**are**_ going to allow the nations you are taking care of to have democratic elections, aren't you?"

"Da. We will democratically allow them to pick Communism," Ivan admitted. He paused and looked at America.

The muscles in the other nation's jaw had tensed and he'd subconsciously balled his fists. He stood firmly in front of Ivan, his eyes determined and intense.

"Honestly, I'm jealous of those things you have right now, and I think I'll have to make some of my own to help grow support for my way of thinking," Ivan mused.

"That's not democracy," America said through his clenched teeth. "If you don't allow them to be free, I'll do everything in my power to stop you."

"You are free to try," Ivan replied. "You're the only one still strong enough to even make an effort to; all the other nations are too spent from this little argument we all had." He felt a tickle in his chest. "This will be fun! I can't wait!" He giggled as he felt a large smile spread across his face.

"Why wait?" America said, whipping out a Browning HP pistol and pointing it at Ivan.

Ivan, in turn, pulled out a Tokarev TT-33 pistol and leveled it at America's head.

"Alfred," England said, walking up to the two nations, "I think I dropped my handkerchief around here, did you se—" When he saw what they were doing, he stopped and stared for a moment. "What the bloody hell do you two think you're doing?" he yelled, rushing up to them.

"Stopping the spread of Communism, 'f course," America replied.

"You don't really like this brat, da?" Ivan said to England. "I'll take care of this obnoxious loud-mouth for you."

"Are you both gormless?" England said. "You're going to cock-up everything on the eve of a peace settlement?"

"We nations were never truly friends, England," Ivan pointed out, glancing over at him. "I know you still hate me even now. We were merely Allies against a common enemy."

"Well, some alliances don't end after the battle's over and won and—What the hell are you doing Alfred? !" England shouted.

Ivan looked down to where England had glanced. America had activated a hand grenade and was trying to slip it into Ivan's coat pocket. England somehow managed to wrestle it out of America's hand and throw it in a nearby pond. It exploded with a "Boom!", splashing sprays of water on them.

"What were you thinking pulling that stunt?" England yelled.

America shrugged. "Preemptive strike." He raised his pistol back at Ivan. "I thought if I could blow him up while he was distracted, I could keep him from shooting me or you in the head."

"Idiot! Weren't you the one who lectured _**me **_about mutual destruction?" England said. "If you had been successful, we all would have received damage from that grenade!"

"It will take more than that little toy to kill me," Ivan said, cocking his pistol, which was still aimed between America's eyes.

England pulled out his Browning HP and pointed it at Ivan's head. "Stop this!" he said, his voice shaking.

America sighed at seeing this. "It's all right, Arthur," he said, lowering his weapon and putting it in its holster. "Russia's right. It will take a MAD plan to stop him."

For a moment, Ivan caught a glint in America's eyes of something he'd seen so many times in the mirror. He un-cocked his pistol and returned it to its holster. Only then had England put away his pistol as well. Then he and America had turned and walked away from Ivan.

"I look forward to seeing what you come up with," Ivan had said.

America had glanced over his shoulder with a look that promised Ivan he wouldn't be disappointed with all the fun they would have.

Ivan sighed deeper. Those were the days. They'd fought each other indirectly through other countries (Ivan was sure Cuba would never forgive him for abandoning him like that). There had been lots of fist fights, threats, and skirting the edge of destroying the world over and over. Neither country's boss wanted to turn the Cold War into a "hot" one, so it had been one stalemate after another.

Ivan was still sure that eventually all would be one with Russia. Lately, though, after America had jumped ahead of him with the "space race", it hadn't been as much fun. The capitalist pig didn't take Ivan's threats as seriously as he used to. He almost felt like America was looking down his nose at him.

The last of the vodka emptied into the glass. Ivan blinked in surprise. _Have I really been here that long?_ he wondered as he thought about how he needed to go to his Berlin house and let Natalia know when to expect him home in Moscow. She'd specifically asked him to do so. _If I don't check in, would she come looking for me?_

Ivan shuddered at the thought of being tracked down by his little sister. He'd always enjoyed watching her do that with other nations, but for some reason, it bothered him to imagine her doing that to _**him**_. He didn't know why he felt that way; she'd never given him any reason to dread her being around him before. It thrilled him a little bit to think that this is how all those nations had felt when he'd "sicked" her on them. Ivan reached in his coat to get his wallet and pay for his drinks and considered ordering another bottle.

The bartender held up his hand and shook his head. "Es ist bereits bezahlt."

Ivan felt confused; he'd done nothing to make this bartender feel threatened. "What do you mean?" he asked back in German.

"The young Fräulein over there paid for it," the bartender said, pointing over Ivan's shoulder.

Ivan turned to look at an empty seat.

"Hmm. Strange. She was there a minute ago," the bartender said. "Difficult to miss one like that—long dark hair, blue-gray eyes. Sure, she's not atemberaubend schön, but there's just something about her. Can't put my finger on what. She's just anders."

"Why did she pay for my drinks?" Ivan asked. "Do I look poor?"

The bartender took a step back, and Ivan realized he probably looked threatening at that moment. "Nein. Nein!" the bartender said. "She said she knows it was forward of her, but you looked like you had the weight of the world on your shoulders, and she wanted you to have a good evening."

Ivan was taken aback by that. "How kind," he said, and he actually meant it when he said it this time. "I must thank her. Do you know who she is?"

"Ja. She's been coming here every night since Monday," the bartender said. He hesitated. "It's not professional to just give out a Fräulein's name, even if I know it, to a stranger. No offense Herr, but I just met you."

"None taken. I understand. Allow me to introduce myself," Ivan said, holding out his hand. "My name is Ivan Braginski."

"Karl Hartmann," the bartender said, shaking his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I couldn't help but notice your accent. Are you Russian?"

"Da," Ivan said with a small smile at this. "Once we talk and get to know each other better, do you think I perhaps can introduce myself to that Fräulein? I really only want to thank her, nothing shady. Do you think she'll be back tomorrow night?"

"Ja, I think so. She's been coming here every night at six to have supper and polish off a bottle or two of beer or cut brandy," Karl said, "but I'm sure she didn't just pay for your drinks just to get you to thank her."

"That may be so," Ivan said, "but I want to all the same." He felt overcome with curiosity. _Why would a German girl do such a thing? They're usually so cautious. _He was not used to such a gesture, and he wanted to know her true motivation._ It couldn't be just as she had said; she has to have an ulterior motive. Everyone does._

After a short conversation with Karl about himself (that is, what he was allowed to share with a non-nation), Ivan ordered another bottle of vodka, paid for it, and stepped out into the night air. He looked left and right; plenty of brunette and dark-haired girls were out on the street, but all were accompanied by someone. The bartender had told him that this young lady was always alone.

Ivan turned and walked toward his Berlin house. He glanced up at the stars. He would have to think of a good excuse for Natalia as to why he needed to stay in the GDR for a little while longer.

* * *

**A/N**

***Again, my head-canon is that Esperanto is the native language of the nations; that's how they've been able to communicate with each other all these years even though their people's languages aren't the same (see Ch. 2 for more explanation).**

**+When accused of invading Afghanistan in 1979, USSR claimed it was asked to come by the current Communistic government. That government needed assistance in dealing with its current civil war; hence, the split personality disorder reference.**

‡**France's harsh rule over Vietnam was one of the major causes of that war. The United States only became more involved b/c of worries about the spread of Communism. The Korean War was a military conflict between the Republic of Korea (South Korea), supported by the United Nations, and the Democratic People's Republic of Korea (North Korea) and People's Republic of China (PRC), with air support from the Soviet Union. The United States got involved only at the UN's urging and considered it merely a "police action". The Korean War lasting from July 1951 until the 1953 border stalemate and armistice though minor outbreaks of fighting continue to the present day. (-_- as we just have seen recent evidence of).**

**§ The Potsdam Conference is where Germany was split up between the USSR, Britain, France and the United States. It was held from July 17 to August 2, 1945.**

†**On July 24, 1945, President Truman mentioned to Stalin, at the Potsdam Conference, that the United States had a "new weapon of unusual destructive force" (a.k.a. the atom bomb). Stalin was recorded to having said he was glad to hear it and hoped it would be used against the Japanese. Stalin then sent a telegram telling his scientists to speed up Soviet development of nuclear bombs. Four days after the Potsdam Conference concluded, the United States dropped atom bombs on Hiroshima (Aug. 6) and Nagasaki (Aug. 9).**

**FYI: MAD = Mutual Assured Destruction. "If I use nukes, everyone will die. So no one will use them. But that doesn't mean I can't still threaten everyone with them." (Pretty dumb idea, huh? In America's defense, this idea did not originate from the United States; several countries bought into this "policy").**

**Sorry, I'll try to keep the historical explanations as brief as possible without sacrificing any vital information (there was so much more I could have said about each of these events but I held back so as not to bore you). I won't eliminate explanations though. I was a history nerd before I became a fan of Hetalia, and I have to be true to the facts.**

* * *

**I had an image in my mind from a fanart for how Alfred looked when he pulled his Browning HP on Russia. If you'd like see it, I put a link in my profile page for it.**

**BTW If you're wondering why Ivan doesn't know why Natalia creeps him out, the time period for this part of the story is 1981; that's 8 years before the Soviet Union falls apart. Remember, ****Natalia doesn't start her "Marry-me-Marry-me-Marry-me" until **_**after**_ **the USSR breaks up, and she comes "back home" ^_^**

**As I said in the top A/N this is what's known as a "sub-plot", which is a secondary plot line that is a supporting side story for any story or the main plot. Subplots usually connect to main plots, in either time and place or in thematic significance. Subplots often involve supporting characters as the main focus of the subplot; they sometimes interact with the protagonist or antagonist, but not always. They are great tools b/c they add complexity and dimension to the story.** **I had originally thought to do this as its own story, but somehow it felt right to put it right here in the story . . . you'll see why once we get back to the main plot/story. (Sorry, English fiction lesson over now . . . I'm an English professor; I can't help myself).**

* * *

**Arthur's slang words: **

**gormless = slightly lacking in the common sense department. **

**cock-up = make a complete mess of something. **

**Translations:**

**вареники a.k.a. Pierogi – this is a central and eastern European dish. They are boiled, baked or fried dumplings served of unleavened dough traditionally stuffed with potato filling, sauerkraut, ground meat, cheese, or fruit. In Germany, spinach is also an ingredient. They are usually semicircular, but some are triangular or rectangular in shape. Ivan literally called them "dumplings" but he meant pierogi. **

**Es ist bereits bezahlt = It's already paid for.**

**Fräulein = title for young girls or unmarried women **

**Herr = sir**

**atemberaubend schön = breath-takingly beautiful**

**anders** **= unusual, different**

**Please note that the Soviet Union referred to East Germany as the German Democratic Republic (GDR). Russia also called East Berlin just "Berlin" (b/c as Ivan told me "who cares about the others' Berlin, da?"). East Germany is what the Western world called informally it (we all know it's Prussia's territory though). **

Omake

_Meanwhile in Moscow:_

*The Baltic Trio enters Russia's home*

Lithuania: We're back.

Belarus: Where's Big Brother? When I left the Conference, he was with you three.

Estonia: He said he was thirsty and then went to talk to the Potato Brothers.

Belarus: Did he give you a message for me?

Estonia: *shakes head*

Belarus: Well, he'd better keep his promise to call me if he isn't coming back tonight.

Latvia: You're not his mother; why does he have to call you?

Belarus: *brandishes a knife, glares at Latvia, and takes a step towards him*

Latvia: *freezes like a rabbit in a predator's glare*

Estonia: No! Latviaaaa!

*the telephone rings*

Belarus: *pounces on the receiver* Big Brother?

Lithuania: (quietly) Saved by the bell.

Belarus: What? You really aren't coming home? Okay, I understand. *hangs up and turns back to the empty space once occupied by the Baltic States*

=_= I know...it's not funny...Sorry


	9. Ivan and the Fox in the Hot Red Dress

**Ch. 9: Ivan and the Fox in the Hot Red Dress**

"I'm sorry, Herr Braginski," Karl said in German, pouring Ivan some vodka. "I thought for sure she'd be back on the first night."

Ivan took a drink and smiled at Karl. They'd been sharing a bottle (Ivan more than Karl since he was still working) and talking the whole evening. "It's fine," Ivan replied in German. "Every time the wrong Fräulein walks in, you've given me a free drink. I can't really complain about _that_, Herr Hartmann."

"I told you that you could call me _Karl_, remember?" the blond bartender said.

"That's right. Sorry I forgot, Karl," Ivan said, laughing, "and I told you that you may call me Ivan."

"Well, I will, but I need a little more time," Karl said. "It still feels strange to me since I don't call many customers by their first names. As for the young lady, I truly thought for sure she'd be back because she told me that we were the closest place to her apartment. I had figured she had walked here."

"_**I **_was the one who decided to cancel my plans and wait here to meet her," Ivan said. "You do not need to apologize." _I say it's fine, but that doesn't stop me from feeling a little foolish all the same._

Ivan had waited every night from 6:00 p.m. until 9:30 p.m. for the last three nights. It was embarrassing. The last two nights, every time a dark-haired or brunette woman had walked in, Ivan would glance over to Karl at the bar, and the bartender would shake his head.

Tonight, Karl had spent a majority of the evening chatting with Ivan. On the plus side, Karl must have given Ivan 3 ½ bottles of free vodka in the last three evenings (much, Ivan was sure, to the chagrin of Karl's wife, Angelika).

"Well, this one's empty," Karl said and went back to get another bottle of vodka. He was interrupted as one of the waitresses put in an order for a mixed drink.

Ivan drained the glass. He was beginning to doubt the young lady would ever show and had decided that if 8:00 p.m. rolled around and she didn't show, he would pack up and head back to Moscow. His feelings of impatience and embarrassment were stronger than his curiosity was. Ivan didn't think the chances of her showing tonight were very good either. It was pouring outside. Maybe a handful people had come in since the rain started.

The door clattered, and a 167 centimeter* figure entered wearing a blue overcoat, a black umbrella hiding the person's face like a cloud. The owner of the umbrella carefully shook water droplets off the waterproof canopy before lowering it. Ivan found himself looking at a girl who looked about 19 or 20 with dark brunette hair and blue-gray eyes.

Karl let out a strangled cry, and Ivan quickly looked at him. Karl was nodding vigorously and grinning. Ivan glanced back over to the girl.

She struggled to close her umbrella, but it refused to shut. Every time she appeared to have success in closing it, the contraption would prove her wrong by popping open again. She finally threw the umbrella down on the floor of the restaurant and let out a frustrated huff. Angelika let out a laugh and hurried over to her. She picked up the umbrella and easily closed it. The girl threw up her hands in defeat and laughed.

Angelika put the umbrella in a rack to drip dry and signaled for a waitress to show the young woman to a table. Karl flashed a sign at Angelika, and she nodded. She whispered something to the waitress who also nodded. The waitress chatted happily with the girl as she led her to her table.

The waitress seated the girl three tables away from Ivan with her back to him. She was so caught up in her conversation with the waitress that she didn't even notice Ivan sitting there. She removed her blue overcoat to reveal a red dress, styled and cut in a way that flattered her curvaceous figure. She flipped her nearly waist-length dark hair over her shoulder so that it flowed down her back in curly waves and glanced at the menu the waitress had given her. Ivan felt some heat flow into his cheeks and wondered if the vodka was starting to go to his head. He'd already had ten glasses full tonight.

She ordered her meal, took a small sketchpad out of her bag, and stared at a couple two tables away. After a minute, she started scribbling in the pad with a pencil. Ivan found himself wondering if she was an artist. He suddenly felt a little nervous. _How does one approach a complete stranger in Germany? _he wondered._ I'm positive the way to do it here is different than in Russia. _

Karl came from behind the bar and walked over to Ivan's table."You said you wanted to introduce yourself to her, but you look like your frozen to that chair," he whispered, setting down the new bottle of vodka. "Would you like me to introduce you to her?"

"How?" Ivan said, paying for the bottle. "You said you only knew her name, Karl."

"That wasn't the whole truth, Herr Braginski," Karl admitted, coloring slightly. "I didn't want to share too much about the Fräulein since she's all alone in this city. Meine Frau Angelika," Karl nodded toward the stunning blond hostess, "und I have walked her home every night that she's dined here. She's shared a lot with meine Frau, und I got a chance to talk with her as well. So I really did know her more than I first let on. I'm sorry."

"I completely understand your hesitation," Ivan said, trying not to feel hurt. He'd grown so used to the other nations trusting and taking him at face-value that he'd forgotten that non-nations didn't act like that.

"But I have had enough time talking to you to know that you are not a bad person, Herr Braginski," Karl countered. "You've shared with me about your family, homeland, work, and thoughts over the last few days. That is enough for me. That's why I'd be happy to introduce you to Fräulein Fuchs."

Ivan bit his lip to keep from laughing.

Karl read Ivan's expression easily. "I know," he said, chuckling. "The sooner she marries and changes her name the better." Karl had just called the young woman "Miss Fox".

"Well the name fits," Ivan said, "and not telling how well you were acquainted wasn't your only fib."

"Entschuldige? Worüber sprichst du?" Karl asked.

Ivan nodded toward the girl. "That crafty girl has kept me waiting all this time, and the suspense nearly killed me†," he said. "As for the lie, you said she wasn't good-looking, but she is _lovely_." He felt the heat return to his cheeks again, embarrassed that he'd just admitted such a thing.

"Well, compared to meine Frau . . ." Karl said, glancing over at his wife. "I guess all other women aren't pretty to me." Karl got a sly grin on his face. "I thought you only wanted to thank her. Don't tell me you've changed your mind? Perhaps you want to get to know her better?"

Ivan cleared his throat. "No. I really do wish to thank her for the other night," he said, unwilling to admit anything else.

"Well, I'll just leave it at that," Karl said, nodding and smiling. Ivan noticed that Karl had another glass of vodka in his hand. "If more comes of it, it's up to Fräulein Fuchs. Now, watch me work, Herr Braginski." He walked over to the young woman and set down the drink. "Someone is returning the favor," he said, nodding in Ivan's direction.

"Генерал Винтер, пожалуйста убейте меня теперь," Ivan said quietly. He hoped she didn't assume that he told Karl to say that line.

She looked away from Karl and made eye contact with Ivan. She smiled sincerely and gestured a toast to him with the glass Karl had given her.

"That means you can go over and talk to her, just in case you didn't know," Karl said as he walked back to the bar, looking smug.

Ivan watched Karl return to his workspace, flabbergasted. Then he glanced over at the girl. She had propped her chin on her hand as she leaned on the table and was still looking at him. Ivan wondered if she'd been staring the whole time.

Ivan felt his stomach flip-flop when she didn't look away. _This girl is certainly forward._ He had two choices now: pour himself a glass and give her a toast from his table or go over and talk to her. He chose the latter.

"I wanted to thank you for the other night," Ivan said in German as he stood off to her right.

She looked up at him. "Wow, you're even taller close up; I'll strain my neck talking to you like that." She gestured to a chair beside hers. "Please, sit down."

Ivan sat down and set the bottle and glass he'd brought with him on the table.

"My name is Malika Fuchs," she said, extending her hand.

Ivan gently shook her hand. "I am Ivan Braginski."

She smiled. "Well, Herr Braginski, I didn't expect you to thank me. I thought you might think I was acting brazen the other night."

Ivan stared at her. There was definitely a quality about her that was unique. Ivan tried to put his finger on what it was but couldn't quite figure it out.

Malika brought her hand to her face. "What is it? Do I have something on my face?" she asked, blushing.

"Ah. No," Ivan said. "It's just ые настолько необычны. I feel like I've met you before or seen you somewhere before."

Malika blinked and looked surprised for a moment. "I'm positive this is the first time we've met, but maybe you saw me the other night?"

Ivan shook his head.

She got a playful look on her face. "Well then, Herr Braginski, perhaps then you can tell me in what way am I 'unusual'?"

This time it was Ivan's turn to be surprised. "You speak Russian?"

Malika laughed. "Not very well," she said. "and I've only learned a little bit." Her eyes twinkled. "Plus I have heard that line before from other Russian men. Only _**they**_ were trying to pick me up. I mean when Karl said—"

"That's not what I was trying to do!" Ivan protested quickly, crimsoning furiously. "I really only intended to thank you, that's all. What I meant to say was Вы настолько красивы, что я не мог помочь мне." Ivan froze. _Why on earth am I suddenly saying such embarrassing things? Am I channeling that stupid America? _He looked at Malika and could see she was trying to figure out everything he'd just said.

"Let's see . . . 'you are so beau'—" Malika started to say.

"Never mind, Fräulein Füchsin," Ivan interrupted in German. "It's not vital to the conversation that you translate what I just said. It was just babbling."

Malika laughed. "What did you just call me?" she asked. "I've had people make fun of my name before, but that's a new one."

"I called you by your name, da?"

"You called me Miss Vixen, you know, a female fox?" she said. "If you were a German, I'd think you were teasing me." She laughed again.

Ivan felt the heat flow over his entire face. _Why hasn't General Winter arrived to finish me off yet?_ He had asked for him earlier and now he really wanted him there. The waitress brought Malika's meal, which offered a welcome interruption while Ivan composed himself.

"Well, I guess my German isn't as good as yours," Ivan said, "but I noticed your accent is a little funny as well."

Malika shook out her napkin, and a fork went flying out. "Scheiße!" she said, and then clapped a hand to her mouth. "I'm so sorry. That was my mother's favorite German word, and I guess I picked it up."

The waitress brought her a new fork, and Malika blushed profusely."I'll try to keep my language as lady-like as possible from now on," she said. "As for the accent, that's because of meine Mama und mein Opa."

Ivan raised an eyebrow.

"I've got a lot stacked against me in that department. Opa, Papa's Vater, was English, you see," Malika explained, "und Mama was Czech. Because Papa traveled for his work, Mama taught me everything, including her way of speaking German. I remember one time she—" Malika suddenly got an odd look on her face, fell quiet, looked down at her plate, and stared at the food for a minute. Malika picked up her fork and stabbed a pieróg, eating it quickly.

Ivan noticed that the corners of her eyes had watered with tears. "Fräulein Fuchs," Ivan started to say, "What—"

"I'm sorry. How rude," Malika said, quickly wiping her eyes. "I should not be eating in front of you. Would you like some, Herr Braginski?" She pushed her plate toward him.

He hovered his hand over the plate. "Never mind that," Ivan said. "Why are you sad all of a sudden?"

"Sorry," she said. "When I started talking about Mama, memories started coming back and . . ."

Ivan said nothing.

Malika looked at him and set down her fork. "Ach du meine Güte! I can't believe I'm telling you this," she said, crimsoning. "But somehow . . . I feel like I can trust you. My parents were both killed in an automobile accident years ago. I guess the wounds are still fresh even now." A few tears leaked out, which she, once again, quickly wiped away.

Ivan wasn't sure what to do or say. "Some wounds never heal," he said finally, thinking of Nicholas, Alexandra, little Anastasia, and all the others with deep regret.

"Is that why you try to drown your sorrows?" Malika asked, indicating the bottle.

"This? Nein, this is like water to me," Ivan said.

"I see," she replied. "Then my assumption the other night was presumptuous _**and**_ incorrect. I'm sorry for meddling in something that wasn't really what I thought it was, Herr Braginski."

"That night you were actually correct," he said, "and it did cheer me up."

"Well, meine Mama always said the best way to forget your own problems is try comforting someone else," she said. Malika gulped down the glass of vodka Karl had given her and gasped. Obviously, the drink was stronger than she expected it to be. Her eyes watered, and Ivan wondered if she was just using the drink to hide something else. They sat in silence for a moment.

"Are you sure you don't want some food?" Malika said finally, as if she didn't dare ask the reason why Ivan needed cheering up. "I really want to eat, but I don't want to be rude."

"Then I will order some for myself," he said, signaling for a waitress who took his order and hurried back to the kitchen. Ivan looked around for something to talk about. "So you are an artist?" He pointed at the sketch book.

"I would love call myself that, but as you can see. . ." Malika said, showing him a very rough sketch of what Ivan guessed was the couple from earlier. "I still need a lot more practice." She had scribbled in German next to the sketch. "I wonder if they have a family or if they are just starting out," it said.

"Mama, Papa, and I used to eat together every night," she continued. "I haven't made any friends in this city yet, except for Karl, Angelika, and Lena." She pointed at the waitress who had served them earlier just as she tipped over a glass she was collecting from a table. "So this helps me to not feel so lonely— there I go again. You don't need me telling you my troubles and bringing you down."

"It's fine," Ivan said. "You aren't bringing me down compared to . . ." he stopped and mulled over what to say next. _Should I share something personal too?_ He _**knew **_that he couldn't trust any of the other nations; many, if not all, had already proven untrustworthy (except maybe the ones living at his house, and even then, he wasn't sure). _Can I trust a non-nation?_

"My new friend has been having some financial and psychological issues," he shared finally, trying to be vague and specific at the same time. "It's costing me quite a bit of energy and funds to help out, and my associates have ridiculed me for even trying to help. That's why I was upset the other night."

"How fortunate for this friend that you are willing to help despite the trouble and grief it's giving you," Malika said, placing her hand on Ivan's.

Ivan looked down at their hands.

"Ach. Sorry," she said, pulling her hand away. "Family habit."

Lena brought Ivan's meal. "Anything to drink?"

"We'll manage," Ivan said, holding up his vodka bottle.

Lena nodded, her eyes wide. She then shrugged and left them to their meal. Ivan figured she didn't approve of his choice of beverage, but he didn't care. Ivan poured himself another glass of vodka and then offered Malika some.

"Спасибо," she said.

"Пожалуйста," Ivan replied. Malika sipped her drink and then began to eat again. He leaned on his hand and watched her. She noticed this, blushed, and stared at her food while she continued to eat._ Как__ восхитительный,_ Ivan thought.

He took a bite of his own meal. "I just remembered something I wanted to ask you earlier: Why are you learning Russian?" he asked, after swallowing.

"Well, I'm trying to learn it because I hope to become a government diplomat or something like that—maybe in Russia," she replied. "I'm hoping to take some classes at the university here since I've already finished my erweiterte Oberschule. I have to earn my own living and painting ceramics in a factory isn't cutting it, so why not go for something big?" She took another bite of her meal and chewed it appreciatively.

Malika suddenly clapped her hands together, causing Ivan to jump. "How lucky for me to make friends with you, Herr Braginski," she said. "Perhaps you can tutor me on my pronunciation, so that I don't mess up the accent in _**another**_ language."

"Da. I could help you," Ivan said, "but I don't live here. I was only passing through on my way home from work in another country."

"Oh." Malika looked down at her meal. "I'm sorry for making the assumption you were living here; it's just this particular restaurant is a favorite among the locals, so I thought—"

"Your assumption wasn't that far off," Ivan said. "A few associates of mine told me as much." He recalled how Prussia and Germany both had specifically recommended this restaurant and bar to him as the "best in the city".

"I could still tutor you," Ivan heard himself say. He blinked. _Why did I say that?_ he wondered, surprised by his own offer. Then he realized that he wanted to help, even though he couldn't explain why.

"But you just said—"

"I travel for my work," Ivan stated, cutting her words off. "I could stop by here every week if I wanted. Though if I get busy, I might not be able to."

Malika smiled. "Any help is better than none. Thank you, Herr Braginski!" She grabbed his hands and shook them eagerly.

"Let's start next week, Fräulein Fuchs," Ivan suggested when she finally released his hands. "Tonight, I will give you important phrases to learn, and then I'll test you on your pronunciation of them when I return."

"You are sure it's not too much trouble?" she asked.

"If you think it is, then pay me for my trouble," he said.

"But if you don't live here, what good will having Marks—"

"No, not with money," Ivan interrupted.

Malika narrowed her eyes. "What are you suggesting?"

Ivan held up his hands to stop her suspicion."Nothing questionable," he said. He pointed again at her sketchbook. "I want some of your sketches if you have them."

"Natürlich . . . if that's what you want," Malika said, opening the book and holding it above her lap. "But what do you mean 'if you have them'?"

Ivan gave her a crooked smile."I want the ones you drew when you were here four nights ago, the night you paid for my drinks."

Malika's mouth dropped open, and she fumbled to catch her sketchbook before it hit the floor. Her blush went all the way to her ears.

Ivan's smile widened. _This is going to be fun._

* * *

**A/N **

**In case any non-German speakers are wondering why some of the characters are addressing each other so formally, it's because, in Germany, you only call relatives, close friends and those you are close to by their first names (learned that in German class, so correct me if I'm wrong). That's why Karl, the bartender, doesn't call his customers (except for his good friends) by their first names. Now, if the person gives you permission, then you may call them by his or her first name.**

***That's 5 foot 6 inches for non-metric users.**

†**In Russia, saying someone is "foxy" means they are sly, crafty, or cunning, unlike in the US, where it means "sexy".**

* * *

**Translations (listed in the order spoken):**

**meine Frau = my wife**

**Entschuldige? Worüber sprichst du?** **= Excuse me? What are you talking about?**

**Генерал Винтер, пожалуйста убейте меня теперь = General Winter, please kill me now.**

**ые настолько необычны = you are so unusual. [btw this really _is_ a pick-up line; I took it off a "How to talk to a Russian woman" site LOL]**

**Вы настолько красивы, что я не мог помочь мне** **= You are so beautiful that I could not help myself.**

**Fräulein = Miss (this is the term used to address most unmarried or younger woman)**

**Füchsin = Vixen**

**Scheiße = Shit**

**pieróg = Singular version of pierogi (the dumpling dish mentioned in the previous chapter). In Germany, this dish is called _Pirogge_ in the singular and _Piroggen_ in the plural, but sometimes the Polish version of the word is also accepted. I decided to use the Polish version to avoid confusion from the previous chapter and because this would be the most commonly accepted version between a Russian person and a German person. **

**meine Mama und mein Opa = my mom and my grandpa**

**Papa = Dad**

**Vater = Father (the _V _is pronounced as an _F_) [Yes that's a messed up combination of lineage: her grandpa was an English soldier who fell in love and stayed, and her mother moved there from Czechoslovakia to go to school and met her Papa—that's all the spoiler I'm going to give you right now].**

**Ach du meine Güte! = Good grief! [Malika is trying to be lady-like here; she could have used the stronger expression that Prussia likes to use all the time, but didn't]**

**Спасибо = Thank you**

**Пожалуйста = You're welcome, or Don't mention it.**

**Как восхитительный = How adorable!**

**erweiterte Oberschule = a school East Germans were required to attend if they wished to progress to university-level education. This often required the students to also take part in ideological activities and the male students to serve in the military.**

**Marks= **_**Mark der DDR**_ **(Mark of the GDR) was the official name of East Germany's currency, but everyone there referred to it colloquially as just **_**Mark (or Marks **_**when plural)**

**Natürlich = Of course (literally "naturally")**

**This has to be the most I've mixed languages with English so far. I'll try to keep it to a minimum.**

* * *

**I hope you all are having fun reading this subplot; I'm sure by now you're making some connections to the main story (maybe? Hint: Malika is Slavic/Old German variant in for. . . ? 2nd hint :"thinkbabynames" website** . . . **Okay now I'm practically giving it away -_-). **

**I want you all to know that I'm not dragging this subplot out just to torture you, it's just—**

**Ivan: "Just what?"**

**Me: "! ! !"**

**Ivan: "You can't just rush through _my part_ of the story, even if it's in the past. It's only fair tell it properly, da?"**

**Me: "S-s-sure. Please put down the faucet-pipe." *unsure why I find Ivan both scary and sexy at the same time***

**Ivan: "Oh this? I was just using it to eat my pierogi. I wasn't going to do anything sinister with it." *cups my chin in his hand*** **"Did you think I had some other purpose? I'm always gentle with the ladies, you know. Trust me, da?"**

**Me: *swoons***

**. . .**

**Yes, I talk to my characters—crazy—yup, I know. I actually _should_ say that _they_ talk to _me_, but it's pretty much the same thing, da?**

**I'm sorry if the "Ivan chapters" are a little more dramatic than the others. I've tried to infuse in some humor, but it's really difficult for some reason (I'll blame myself rather than Ivan; I like as little pain as possible ;P). Maybe it's because Ivan is really a yandere, which is harder to write humor for than a tsundere?**


	10. Roses, Sunflowers, Folksongs & Honeypots

**A/N Hope you like this one. It's the result of 10 redrafts, 3 of those were "delete and start over almost from the beginning" drafts (even in this draft, I wrote a whole 3-6 pages that I then deleted b/c they just didn't work).**

**BTW the page/line break in the chapter is a POV switch from Ivan to Malika, just so you aren't confused (it should be apparent, but just in case . . .). **

* * *

**Ch. 10: Roses, Sunflowers, Folk Songs, and Honeypots**

"Wo ist mein Regenschirm?" Malika asked as she put on her blue overcoat.

Ivan looked at the drying rack. Several black umbrellas sat in it. "How do you know yours is missing?" he asked her in German.

She looked back at him. "I painted a rose on the handle," she said, inspecting the rack again as if to verify that she hadn't overlooked hers. "I painted it there, so I could tell which one was mine from all the others."

Ivan looked at his own black umbrella in his hand. His sister, Katyusha, had painted a sunflower on its handle for the same reason. He hesitated for a moment. "You could take mine," he offered.

Malika turned to look at him and shook her head. "I couldn't, Herr Braginski. It's still pouring out. You'd get soaked."

"I'll be fine," Ivan said. "A little shower like this won't hurt me."

"But the drawings I just 'paid' you might get damaged," she said. "Of course, you're free to do with them whatever you want; they're your property now."

Ivan touched the pocket where he'd tucked the sketches. _What should I do_?

The couple from before walked past them. The young man picked up an umbrella, and after stepping out the door, opened it. The couple then stood closely together and walked under one umbrella.

Ivan watched them walk away. "Fräulein Fuchs, why don't we share?" he suggested.

Malika's eyes grew wide.

"Friends can do that," he stated. "I didn't mean it in any way like that couple."

Malika nodded. "Sure. Of course that's what you meant. No one said doing _that_ was for lovers only." She blushed at her words.

Ivan gestured toward the door, and Malika walked outside. He opened the umbrella and stepped into the rain. Malika finished fastening up her coat and stepped next to him.

Despite what both of them had said, the air seemed to spark with nervousness. Walking so closely still felt too close for people who were "just friends". There were several minutes of no sound except the rain hitting the umbrella canopy, the pavement, and the street, broken with an occasional car splashing by.

"Where in Russia do you live?" Malika asked, finally breaking the silence.

"Moscow," Ivan said.

"Wow."

"Da."

"Why a rose?" Ivan asked, feeling like it was his turn to speak up.

"Mein Opa brought some from his home in England," she said. "It's like our family flower because it's also the national flower of Mama's home. But even if that wasn't the case, I still love roses because they smell wonderful."

"Da, that is true," Ivan said.

"What about you?" she asked. "Why do you have a sunflower on yours?"

Ivan scratched his nose with his free hand. "Similar reasons."

"I see."

They walked for another couple of minutes in silence.

Once again, Malika gave into the tension first. "Why did you want my drawings?" she asked, looking straight ahead.

Ivan glanced over at her. In the dim light, he couldn't tell for sure, but he suspected she was blushing again. "I was curious how I look to others," he said.

She let out a little laugh. "Well then you won't find out; my artistic ability isn't that good. Plus you _assumed_ that I'd drawn you," she said. "What if I hadn't? You would have had a bunch of scribblings of nothing."

"Don't discount yourself so much," Ivan said. "If I didn't think them worthy as payment, I wouldn't have asked for them."

"This is the entrance to my apartment complex," Malika said, pointing to a building 100 yards ahead. It was an ordinary 4-story brick building, with a common entrance and interior stairs leading to the apartments. They walked again for a few moments in quiet awkwardness.

"Thank you for saying that about my art," she said quietly, finally acknowledging what Ivan had said. "Mein Papa always thought my drawings were good. It's just teachers and others who don't agree." They stopped in front of the entrance.

Malika looked up at Ivan and held out her hand.

Ivan shook it gently.

"Thank you for walking me home, Herr Braginski," Malika said. "What time would you like to meet at Karl's for my Russian lesson next week?"

"How about six o'clock in the evening?" Ivan proposed. "Tonight was a little late."

Malika smiled. "I'll see you then," she said before hurrying over to the entrance.

Ivan watched her walk into the building and go up the stairs. Her red dress was a little longer than her navy blue coat, and it reminded him of a rosebud about to bloom. This observation caused a flutter in his chest that surprised him.

His cheeks burning, Ivan turned and walked toward his Berlin house. He heard a sound filter up through the air. It startled him when he realized he was humming a folk song he knew from long ago: "Ya vstretil Vas". He laughed at his subconsciousness's choice and continued humming it all the way to his house.

* * *

Malika unlocked her door and set her keys on a little table beside the door. She sighed and shut the door. She'd felt embarrassed that Herr Braginski had asked for her sketches. She had spent a good hour alone just sketching _him_. His childish face fascinated her, especially since he had been looking sad. She felt he had a face that should always be smiling. She probably would have sketched him anyway, even if she hadn't been instructed to in order to memorize his behaviors and expressions so that she could read them.

"Good work, Amelia," a woman's voice rang out from across the room. "You made good use of your time with Herr Braginski."

Malika jumped. She squinted into the darkness and then let out a sigh of relief. "You startled me, Lena," she said as she flicked on the lights. "But I thought we'd discussed that, even in my apartment, you should call me by my operative name. How did you know my real name anyway?"

The waitress from Karl's restaurant was leaning against a small sofa. She walked over to a desk in the main room and picked up some files."It's in the dossier on you," Lena said, flipping through one of the files. She smirked as she read one of the papers. "Is this your real birthday?"

Amelia Jones's eyes grew wide. "What's written there?" she asked, sweating slightly. _Is that my actual file from the President's office? _

"March 4, 1961," Lena read. "I only ask because 20 is a little young to be working as a spy, even if you'll be 21 years old in 5 months."

_What a relief. _Amelia laughed. "Okay you caught me. I _am_ older than _20_. I just fudged the date a little because I'm also an actress and the industry demands youthful actors."

"That explains your convincing performance in the restaurant," Lena said."I don't know if I could cry on command about a family I just made up. And what a sob story I got to overhear." She held up the wire-tap headphones she'd been wearing at the restaurant. "A person would have to be completely devoid of any feeling to not feel for you."

"I didn't make it up," Amelia said, frowning. "My parents really were killed. I've only got my brothers now." Amelia blinked away the tears tingeing her eyes as she remembered her "parents", the non-nation couple she stayed with before the Revolutionary War.

It wasn't really a "car" accident, but people still die in roll-overs; it doesn't matter if it's a real carriage or a horseless one. She still remembered weeping in anguish in the rain as she had knelt next to the lifeless bodies of her "mother" and "father" and had tried to figure out why her adopted parents had died and not her.

_Am I not human too?_ she had wondered when her tears finally lessened. She had examined her body and found no wounds except for a smarting pain and some blood along her hairline. _I thought that's what we nations were. Was I wrong? _Despite the downpour, Amelia had felt no desire to move away from her parents to find shelter. She must have sat beside them for hours before another carriage had come finally by and found them.

"What has happened here?" the driver of the carriage had called. The driver and his companion had jumped down from their carriage, ran down the ravine, and over to the overturned carriage.

Amelia, her dress still damp long after the rain had stopped, slowly turned her head and looked at them. "As you could see, the rain caused some of the road to collapse . . .the horse was spooked . . . our carriage flipped . . . my parents . . . they are dead," she said numbly.

"You are certain they are dead?" the driver's companion asked.

"Quite certain," she replied. "The accident happened this afternoon . . . they died a short while after we crashed . . . or maybe they were killed immediately . . . I do not know . . . when I awoke after striking my head on the rocks . . . " Amelia felt the sobs rise up in her chest again when she remembered what she had found when she had become conscious again after the accident. She choked back the tears. _I have already wept so much; how can I still have any pain left inside me?_

The two men looked at the dried blood on the side of Amelia's head and in her hair, then over at the sunset. "Why did you not find someone to help you?" the driver asked.

Amelia gave them a weak smile. She smoothed back the wet hair of her dead mother. "This is in the middle of the countryside. Who would I have gone to for help? There are not any houses for miles," she said. "My parents are all I have in the world except my three brothers, and I couldn't go to them for help; one does not live with us, and the other two do not even know I exist."

The two men looked at each other; the driver coughed to hide his discomfort. "Come with us," he said, holding out a hand to help Amelia up. "We will help you take your parents home. Lawrence, get some blankets from the carriage."

When he heard of Amelia's situation, Alfred came to her rescue. He paid for the funeral and tried to comfort Amelia at the funeral as best as he could.

"What are we?" Amelia asked after her "parents" relatives had left the grave site. "We can get hurt, but when it comes to dying, we . . . Molly and William . . . Mama and Papa . . . they died so easily. But I . . ." She trailed off as fresh tears began to stream down her face. Amelia covered her face with her hands and wept bitterly into them. Alfred pulled her into a hug, and gently patted her back until her crying had nearly stopped.

"Non-nation humans die, we do not . . . not easily anyway," Alfred said quietly, still holding her in the hug. "I haven't heard of any of us dying before, but I'm sure it's possible. I think the country and what it represents must die too." Alfred released her and looked around the graveyard.

"I have some friends here too," he said. "Our apparent immortality does not stop us from feeling the anguish of loss when they pass on. I am grateful for the pain, even if it kills me inside, because emotions like these prove to me that I'm _**human**_ like they are." Amelia wiped her eyes, and he put his arm around her shoulders.

"Would you like to live with me now?" he said, looking into her eyes.

Amelia sniffed. _What on earth is he talking about? I can't do that._ "What about Arthur?" she said. "I thought you said I should keep out of his sight. He visits and stays with you all the time, sometimes for months. I cannot just live in your attic, and I have never been good at hide-and-seek. You know that."

"He won't be staying with me anymore," Alfred said. He looked away from her and scanned the horizon. His eyes looked distant and sad.

"What? Why? I do not understand," Amelia said. The summer evening air suddenly felt colder to her.

"Our people want independence from Great Britain. They voted on it a couple of days ago," Alfred said, glancing back at her. "So living with me will not be a problem."

"But most of our people are British. Why would we need independence?" she asked.

"Only part of our people feel that way now," he said. "Majority rules. Most want freedom."

"But Arthur is our _**brother**_," Amelia insisted, tears began to flow again for different reasons.

Alfred let out a small laugh. "No. Not anymore," he had said. "In fact, technically he never was _truly _our brother. _**We, you and I**__,_ are family. _**We**_ do not mean anything to _**him**_ except as an underling, or some trophy, or a source of soldiers and wealth. Nothing more." Alfred had released her shoulders and walked away from her, and Amelia had thought that he had looked very lonely. She had followed him to his home. She had nowhere else to go anyway.

"My apologies," Lena said, bringing Amelia back from the memory. "I didn't mean to be calloused."

Amelia shook her head. "It's understandable," she said, wiping away a tear. "Because of me, you've had to stop your regular operations and baby-sit me while I learn how to do this. I'm sure you felt that I was coming into this assignment completely unprepared."

Lena shrugged. "On a plus side, I get to use some of your new listening devices," Lena countered. "I could hear everything you two were saying through the wire you were wearing as if I was sitting right next to you. Although, you didn't have to mention that you knew me. I nearly knocked over the entire table when you said that." Lena closed her eyes, rubbed her right temple, and sighed. "No matter. I'll make it work to our advantage." She looked over at Amelia and smiled. "I still can't believe how lucky we were that Braginski had picked our restaurant to visit the other night."

"It wasn't luck," Amelia said quietly.

"What?" Lena asked.

_Oops. I wasn't supposed to let anyone know that. Oh well. _"I had inside information that his chances of visiting this restaurant were very, _**very**_ good," Amelia said, hoping Lena wouldn't press for more information. How could she tell her handler that President Reagan (her Hollywood idol) and her brother, America, had been planning this for a while and planted her in East Germany (using some other spies) months in advance before the World Conference? Or that her brother had overheard "Prussia" and "Germany" recommending Karl's restaurant to "Russia" and then passed the information on to her? _Even if I could share top secret information like that, who would believe such a story?_

"Was tonight really okay?" Amelia asked, cringing. "I didn't say too much too soon, did I?"

"So long as you don't tell him everything, mein lieber Honigtopf," Lena said, "you should be fine."

"Wait. What did you call me?" Amelia asked. "I only spent 4 months in Kirchberg before I came here, so I still don't know a ton of German yet." She furrowed her brow and tried to translate.

"My dear honey pot," Lena said impatiently in English.

Amelia raised an eyebrow."What's that supposed to mean?" she asked in German.

Lena rolled her eyes. "Gott. You really _**are**_ new to espionage," she said. "A honey pot is what you are to this Ivan Braginski fellow. You seduce him and either steal information from him or get him to spy for you. The Russians use this method all the time." Lena closed Amelia's file, opened the other folder, and scanned the information inside.

"Right. I knew that," Amelia said, blushing.

"I still don't understand what kind of information Braginski has that one of us regulars can't get from any government official," Lena said, reading the information Amelia assumed was on Russia. "Or why a novice like you has been assigned to seduce him. But this assignment comes from much higher up than I've ever seen before."

"Yeah, well," Amelia said, scratching her head. "I guess they figured that if I get caught, there's a way for me to escape that's easier than if a regular spy got caught."

"And that is?" Lena asked.

"I can't really say," Amelia said. _Nations have options you don't have. _The right side of her chest ached when she remembered of one of those options.

Lena shrugged and tucked the two folders in the satchel that she had with her.

"Do you really need to take those with you?" Amelia asked, feeling anxious that her information, even if it was fake information, was accessible to a non-nation.

Lena nodded. "I'm your handler. I need them." She studied Amelia's face. "Don't worry. I have strict instructions to destroy them as soon as this assignment is over."

Amelia bit her lip._ Al didn't say anything about giving out information about me or Russia. What else didn't he tell me?_

"Well, then I guess we're finished until next week," Lena said. She held up a business card. "Here is the address of a ceramics factory I've arranged for you to work at to help with your cover story. You start tomorrow at 6:00 a.m. Try to stay out of trouble until we talk again." She walked to the door. "By the way, you did fine for your first time." She set the business card on the little table next to Amelia's keys, grabbed an umbrella, and nodded toward where she'd retrieved it. "Tell him you got another one."

Amelia looked down where Lena had indicated and saw her umbrella, a rose unfolding gracefully on the handle. "You stole—"

"It got you two closer, didn't it?" Lena said, winking as she opened the door. "I'm just getting started too. You may be good at getting his attention, but this is _my_ profession. You'll have what you need in 6 months or less." She walked out the door and closed it.

Work had been hard lately. Even after five months, Amelia still wasn't used to painting ceramics all day long in a factory and was always grateful to go home. Pulling off the bandana she wore over her hair, she started to undo her braid as she walked up the stairs to her apartment.

_How long has it been since I had a real physical job like this? _she wondered as she rubbed her aching shoulders and neck. _Acting as a representative of your country is certainly easier than this factory job or even the spy business._ Amelia walked in and set her bag on the table in the main room. A light shone from the hallway into the rest of the darkened apartment. She shivered slightly; spring had just barely come to Berlin, and it still wasn't warm enough at night yet.

"We need to speed things up, Malika," a voice said from the darkness.

"Scheiße!" Amelia screeched. She looked over where the voice had come from and let out a sigh of relief. It was Lena again. _Stupid ninja waitress_. "Lena, how many times have I told you to stop doing that?"

Lena ignored her. "You've been working on Braginski for five months now, and you've managed to get nothing out of him."

"I have new information," Amelia said, defensively. "Russia is definitely going to leave Afghanistan. He—I mean—the Russian army is losing against the rebels."

"We already knew that," Lena said.

Amelia flopped down in a chair at the dining room table. "So how do you propose I speed things up?"

Lena reached in her satchel and pulled out a bottle of liquor and a bottle of pills. "The last few times that Braginski has visited, he's carried a briefcase with him," she said. "That means he's acting as a courier for the government. His dossier said he's dangerous, so he must be the perfect man for that kind of job. This is Karl's homemade cut brandy. Drop two of these pills in the bottle and give the liquor to Braginski. Make sure you don't drink it, though; two of these babies will put a full-grown man flat on his back in less than 20 minutes."

"But how will making him pass out at Karl's get us that information?" Amelia said. "I'm sure he'll know it was me who took his briefcase. You'll have to arrange for me to leave Berlin, possibly the country."

Lena pulled an odd-looking gadget out of her satchel. "You won't be taking his briefcase, just photographing the information inside with this equipment. Besides, if the information is good enough, then it won't be a loss if you are discovered as a spy and have to end your assignment," Lena said. "Since you need to take photos, you're not going to give that drink to him at Karl's," she continued, smiled slyly.

"But if not at Karl's, how—"

"You are going to invite Braginski to your apartment for your little Russian 'lesson'," Lena continued. "Then, once he's passed out, you'll take pictures of all the information inside the briefcase. Braginski will be none the wiser when he comes to in your apartment." She walked over to the table and set the bottle, pills, and a mini-camera that had strange clasps on it in front of Amelia.

"The camera attaches to your undergarments. The rest I'll leave to you; one thing, though," she said, smiling mischievously and patting Amelia on the shoulder. "Do your best to make it a pleasant memory for him, so he doesn't ask questions later."

Amelia felt her face grow hot. "But what if Ivan interprets my invitation to my apartment as an invitation to kiss and other stuff? What if he tries to do 'things' before I can get him to drink this?"

"Then let him," Lena said.

"I can't do that!"

Lena scoffed. "What did you think being a honey pot meant? That you sit around eating and drinking with a buddy?" She let out a small laugh. "_'Doing things'_, as you put it, is part of the job. You're being naive if you think you'll make any progress with your tutoring sessions."

"But I only wanted to do stuff like that with Arthur," Amelia said quietly.

"Well you should have thought about that before you signed up for this assignment," Lena said as she put on her coat and grabbed her satchel. She walked across the room and opened the door to the apartment.

"Wait!" Amelia called, getting up out of her chair and walking over to Lena. She clasped her handler's hand. "What if Ivan won't accept my invitation?"

Lena stared, then gave Amelia a once-over. "You're kidding, right?" she said sarcastically. "If he's a normal man, he'll accept it. Any guy would. See you tonight at Karl's." She then hurried down the stairs and out the main entrance.

Amelia closed the door and walked over to where she'd left the bottle of brandy. She dropped 3 pills into the bottle of alcohol, just to be on the safe side, then slipped it into her bag.

"Добрый вечер Malika," Ivan said as he walked up to her table and sat down.

"Ah. Приветствуйте назад, Иван. Вы являетесь ранними," Amelia said, looking up from her sketchbook and smiling. She put away her sketchbook, and they kissed each other on each cheek as a greeting.

"Your accent is getting better," Ivan said in German.

"Thank you," Amelia said. "You're a little early today."

"Is there a problem with my being early?" he asked.

"No, none," Amelia said. "It's just unusual for you." _And I haven't had time to build up the courage to ask you what Lena told me to yet_. She looked for his briefcase. _Where is it? _Panic welled up in her throat. _What am I supposed to do now?_

"Would you like to order dinner now?" she asked, signaling for Lena.

Ivan looked around nervously and cleared his throat. "Actually, Malika, I was wondering if you'd like to join me at my home for dinner," he said just as Lena walked up to their table.

Lena's eyes grew wide.

"It might be nice for a change of scene, da?" Ivan said hurriedly. "Plus you said that your birthday was this month, and I thought since I might not be here on the actual day—my servant is already there making dinner, so we won't be alone, but if you feel uncomfortable about it, I understand."

"I'll just give you a couple more minutes," Lena said as she did an about-face.

Ivan watched her walk away and then looked back at Amelia with a sheepish expression. "Maybe I assume too much. Five months once a week for a few hours might not be enough time to feel comfortable—"

"I'll go! I want to go," Amelia interrupted, "but may I pay my tab before we leave? I'd ordered something earlier and was going to pay for it with my meal."

Ivan smiled and nodded.

Amelia stood and walked over to Lena. "Pretend I'm paying you for that brandy," she told Lena, plopping some Marks in her hand. "What should I do? The briefcase—"

"Is probably at his home," Lena interrupted. "My guess is that he hoped you would accept his invitation, so he probably stopped there and dropped everything off first. Go. You'll be fine. Just remember to not let anyone see you take the pictures. In fact, give some brandy to everyone there if you can."

"Good thing I carried that camera with me," Amelia said, patting her bra where it was hidden.

"Good luck, honey pot," Lena said.

Amelia gave her a crooked smile. "Thanks, beekeeper," she said sardonically, then turned to give Ivan a big smile.

* * *

**A/N**

**Please note: At the beginning of 1982 (the time period when this chapter ends), Russia really _was_ losing the civil war the Russian army was helping the Afghanistan government to fight. By 1982, the Mujahedin rebel forces controlled 75% of Afghanistan despite fighting the might of the world's second most powerful military power. Secretly, the US was helping the rebels . . . how ironic b/c one of the groups fighting Russia at that time was Al-Qaeda and Osama bin Laden (and we helped him =_=). The US wanted Russia to have its own "Vietnam". . . (who would have thought it would become the United States' problem so many years later?) Russia didn't remove the last of its troops from Afghanistan until 1989 (9 years of a bloody and pointless war =_=)**

**Translations:**

**Wo ist mein Regenschirm? = Where is my umbrella?**

**mein Opa = my grandpa**

**Ya vstretil Vas = "I Met You" (Russian Romance). A beautiful Russian folk song (you can find several versions of it on the web, all gorgeous). This song applies very well to the mood I wanted Ivan to be in at this point. See the translated lyrics below.**

**mein lieber Honigtopf = my dear honey pot**

**Scheiße! = Shit!**

**Добрый вечер Malika = Good evening, Malika.**

**Приветствуйте назад, Вы являетесь ранними = Welcome back, Ivan. It's good to see you.**

* * *

**Ya vstretil Vas = "I Met You" (Russian Romance).**

**Translated Lyrics:**

**I met you and the past**  
**Came back to life in my dead heart.**  
**Remembering a golden time,**  
**My heart became so warm.**

**Just as in late autumn**  
**There are days, the transient hour,**  
**When suddenly spring wafts again**  
**And something stirs within us,**

**So, winnowed within by the breath**  
**Of fullness my soul knew in those years,**  
**With a rapture I thought I'd forgotten,**  
**I stare into your dear face.**

**As if we'd been apart for ages**  
**I stare at you and think I'm dreaming,**  
**And suddenly sounds unsilenced in me**  
**Could be heard within me, but louder!**

**That was more than reminiscence:**  
**My life began to talk once more,**  
**As did in you that very same charm,**  
**As did in my soul that very same love!**

* * *

**So were you surprised? Or did my hint from last time give the connection to the main story away? I'm sure all kinds of speculation about Amelia & Ivan can now commence. I got the idea for this subplot when I saw that **_**Malika**_ **was a Slavic variation for the name **_**Amelia**_**. I thought "What if Alfred asked Amelia to spy for him during the Cold War?" And out of that came the ****"history" between Amelia & Ivan. I hope the sub-plot has been interesting to you so far. ^_^**

**Once again I'm sorry that Ivan's story is so dramatic and serious.**

**Ivan: "What does that mean? You don't want to take my past seriously?"**

**Me: "I never said that. I take you very seriously."**

**Ivan: "Da, that's my good little author." *grabs me, pulls me close, and kisses me on the cheek* "You will be one of my pets when everyone becomes one with Russia."**

**Me: *giggles nervously* "You are a lot hotter than I expected you to be." (*unsure whether I mean in temperature or sexiness, or both*) *swoons again* **

**Ivan:*catches me and raises an eyebrow* "Why do you keep reacting that way to me?"**


	11. Ilgai nematytas! Long Time No See!

**A/N: I think it's obvious but just in case: This is from Lithuania's POV. **

* * *

**Ch. 11: Ilgai nematytas! (Long Time No See!)**

"Brother, where are you going again so soon?" Natalia said in Russian, following after the larger nation.

Toris followed closely behind her. _Why do you need to follow him everywhere_? _He doesn't appreciate your devotion._

"I have to go to Afghanistan again, and then I have business in some of the other satellite states," Russia replied in Russian, walking into his room and packing his suitcase.

"You seem too cheerful for just doing work," Toris pointed out.

Russia turned around and marched over to him. He grabbed Toris by the shirt front and used it to lift him up so that he was standing on tip-toe. "Is there a problem with my enjoying my work?" he asked, glowering. "Kol-kol-kol."

Toris felt the blood drain out of his face. "N-n-no. It's just that you've been going to that horrible place every week for months, and it never seems to get better."

Natalia's eyes grew wide his impertinence.

Russia smiled and caressed Toris' shirt lapels with his thumbs. "Well, that's not really my fault, da?" he said. "I've been doing my best. Afghanistan's split-personality issue is just hard to fix easily; the rebels are very passionate. You know all will become one with Russia eventually, so it's just a matter of time."

Natalia grabbed Russia's arm. "Don't go Иван дорогое. Let me take care of it instead."

Russia released Toris and looked at her. He smiled warmly. "No dear маленькая сестра, this assignment is too dangerous," he said. "Also there are some things I'd rather deal with myself. If nothing else, I don't want you to meet that bastard Afghanistan. I want to keep you all to myself." He patted her on the head.

Natalia smiled contentedly.

_Does he even realize what a dangerous and deceptive game he's playing_? Toris thought. _Why can't she see that he only sees her as a child who will always be __**just**__ his little sister?_

"Besides, you have work to do in some of the satellites I won't be visiting," Russia said, pointing to a list he'd posted on an assignment board near the front door earlier.

"That's right," Natalia said, brandishing a knife she pulled from who-knows-where. "I forgot." She grabbed the list and went to get her coat.

"I could help you with your work," Toris said as he started to follow her.

"Lithuania," Russia said.

Toris looked at him, and the larger nation's gaze froze him to the floor.

"I want you to come with me this time," Russia commanded.

Natalia opened the door. "Увидимся позже, Брат!" she called.

"Возвращение благополучно, немного один," Russia said, waving to her and smiling.

"You don't need me," Toris said, finding the will to start following after Natalia again.

Russia was by his side in two strides and clamped a hand down on his arm. "Oh, but I do," he said, dragging him toward his office.

"Wait!" Toris protested. "Didn't you say it was too dangerous?"

"_**You**_ will be fine," Russia said. "I just don't want to risk family, that's all. Besides, organizing and handling paperwork is _**your job**_. I don't know why the boss keeps giving it to me to deliver." Russia opened his briefcase and began to put maps, attack plans, letters for the nations he was to visit, and other important documents in it.

Toris noticed some papers that looked different from the others. The paper was heavier, brighter, and one looked like it had gotten a little waterlogged. He looked down at them.

They weren't perfect, but he could tell they were sketches of Russia. Toris found it odd that Russia looked sad and a little troubled in them. They each had notes written in German on them. His German wasn't the best, but he still could make it out because the language used was very simple, almost like what a child would write: "I wonder why he looks sad / He should smile. It fits his face better / That nose looks Russian," the notes said. One sketch clearly showed what was obviously Russia's hand holding a glass of vodka. "Huge!" was written in German next to it. Toris blushed, unsure why that comment caused that reaction.

The last sketch was of a rose, and it was the best drawing in the bunch. Toris picked it up without thinking. "I miss you . . . I wish I could tell you that I love you," the neat German writing said next to it. As he looked at it, something about the handwriting looked off and almost familiar to Toris, but he couldn't put his finger on why.

"Мой возлюбленный Malika, Кто это написано для? Когда Вы скажете это мне?" was written under it. Toris immediately recognized it as Russia's heavy script.

The paper was snatched out of Toris's hands, and he met Russia's menacing glare. "Don't pry into people's things, Lithuania," he said. He placed the drawings of himself on the office's desk but tucked the rose one into a secret compartment in the briefcase.

Afghanistan was as terrible as Toris thought it would be. They weren't even able to leave the capital city. Toris finished wrapping a gunshot wound he'd received during an attack from the rebels and put his shirt back on. He had made sure the rebels got back 20 times what they'd dealt to him and Russia.

"It's horrible here. Why are we even here?" he asked as he gathered up the paperwork and put it in Russia's briefcase. Russia had made it his job to carry it while they were traveling. It was _always_ his job to shoulder as much work as possible when they were together. "In my opinion, this is a hopeless cause. A waste of time, money, and lives."

"This is nothing," Russia said, throwing a threatening look at Toris. "Who are you to question the boss's judgment, anyway?"

"I'm n-n-nobody," Toris said, trembling and picking up the briefcase. "I was just complaining."

Russia smiled and opened the door to leave. "That's what I thought," he said. "Let's head to Yugoslavia, and then on to Berlin after that, da?"

* * *

"Get some food," Russia told Toris when they arrived in Berlin, "and make dinner for tonight at the Berlin house." He then started to walk in the opposite direction of the house.

"Where are you going?" Toris asked. This was unusual behavior, even for Russia.

"Stop acting like my wife," Russia said, looking over his shoulder at him. "I'm going to invite someone to join me for dinner for her birthday. It wasn't proper before, but since there are 3 of us, perhaps she might not object."

"Her birthday? She?" Toris asked.

Russia walked over to him. "Kol-kol-kol."

"All right! I'll get going," Toris said. "You'll need more vodka than usual, I assume?"

"Of course, nitwit," Russia said, walking away from him.

_Why do I always get stuck doing all this crap?_ Toris thought as he cut up some more vegetables and mixed them into the dish he was preparing.

"Are you sure I'm not imposing on you?" Toris heard a young woman say in German as the door clicked open.

"It is fine," Russia replied in German.

"Ah! Вы наконец прибыли," Toris said as he walked into the living room. He stopped and stared at Russia's guest. _What the hell is she doing here?_

"Toris, this is Malika Fuchs," Russia said. "Malika, this is my housekeeper and servant, Toris Laurinaitis."

Toris gaped. Russia never called him by his human name unless . . . How on earth could _**this woman **_be a non-nation? That was impossible, and Toris knew it.

The young woman smiled at Toris. "Очень рад познакомиться," she said.

"What . . ." Toris started to reply but caught himself when he saw Russia's glare from behind Malika. "I'm sorry. I'm being rude," Toris said in Russian. "It's nice to meet you as well. I just didn't expect to hear a German speak Russian, so I was a little shocked."

Malika smiled and looked behind her at Russia. "Ivan is teaching me," she replied in Russian.

"Ivan" blushed. "I'm only correcting your mistakes," he said, giving her a sincere smile. "You're learning most of it all on your own."

Toris stared. He'd never seen Russia act like this towards anyone, nation or non-nation. "Um, would it be rude of me to ask our guest for some help?" he said. "I couldn't decide which kind of roll to buy, so I got both. If she could help me select which one . . ."

"I'd be happy to help," Malika said. "Will you be all right without me for company if go with him for a bit?"

"Da. I have some work I need to look over anyway," Russia said, nodding over towards his desk where Toris had left his briefcase. He helped Malika out of her coat, and she followed Toris into the kitchen.

As soon as they were out of Russia's earshot, Toris turned and grabbed her around the shoulders. "What the hell are you doing here?" he whispered in English.

Malika looked confused. "I'm sorry. I don't speak English," she said in German.

Toris glared at her. "Don't give me that," he whispered in English. "You do too. Well, England would say you don't, but that's besides the matter."

She furrowed her brow. "I haven't a clue what you are saying," she said in German again. "Maybe you misunderstood me."

"Perhaps I should speak only in Russian since you can't speak German?" she said in Russian.

"I can speak German," Toris protested loudly in German, then lowered his voice. "I mean, I understand and can speak quite a bit. You need to keep your voice down."

"Why would I need to?" Malika said in German. She got a mischievous grin on her face. "Are you going to tell me some secret about Ivan?" she whispered excitedly.

Toris blinked. _Maybe she isn't who I thought she was. She just looks similar. _"No, a person doesn't forget the best time of his life so easily," he said, shaking his head.

Malika looked confused again. "I don't under—"

"Amelia, working for your brother was the best time I've ever had in my entire life," Toris said. "I only knew you for a short while, but the only thing that's changed about you is your hair."

Malika frowned slightly. She stepped back and brushed him aside. "I have no idea what you are talking about. This is the first time we've met," she said, "and this joke isn't funny." She walked over to the kitchen counter top where everything was being prepared.

"Where are these rolls you wanted me to help you select?" she asked, putting her hands on her hips. "Or was that just an excuse to get me in here so that you could hit on me? You should know: I'm interested in Ivan, not you."

Toris's mouth dropped open. Except for her hair and makeup, the way she positioned her body and stood looked exactly like the way Alfred's little sister used to do it.

Toris remembered her distinctly because she would come to Alfred's house the day before his birthday every year that Toris had worked for him before the Great Depression. She would drop off a present for Alfred and then leave without saying "Hello" to Alfred or anyone else. After the first time she had done this, Toris had asked her if she wanted to come to the party the next day. She had laughed and placed her hands on her hips the same way this girl was now positioned.

"No, thank you," she had said. "Al wouldn't want me there. You are so sweet to invite me, though. I'm sure his friends will be coming tomorrow because he invited them months ago, and I wouldn't want to accidentally bump into them."

"How do you know that?" Toris had asked.

"Hmm, I wonder," she had said, turning to leave. "Later sheik. Gotta hit the road." She had sauntered down the walk, got into a black roadster, and drove off.

He also clearly remembered the time she came to visit Alfred one 1931 March afternoon. Toris had thought it unusual for this young woman to visit any other time except July and had noticed that she seemed upset, so he let her in immediately and went to get Alfred for her right away. Then he left to get them some coffee while they talked. When he returned to the room that they were in, he could hear them arguing.

"I'm not telling you how to do your job. Heaven forbid I do that," the young woman said. "All I'm saying is don't loan any more money to the other nations and don't let them default on their loans. You also need to get them to buy more stuff from us. Supply is outweighing demand right now. I'd do it myself, but that falls outside of my job."

"But I'm the only one who can help them right now!" Alfred shouted. "Am I supposed to turn my back on my friends, Amelia?"

"No. I'm not saying that," the woman Alfred had called "Amelia" replied. "I don't know any of them very well except for Canada, naturally, and this Lithuania fellow, and I don't even know him at all, so I can't vouch for them nor tell you how to interact with them. I just don't know if we can trust them, so I think—"

"Exactly," Alfred interrupted. "You _**don't **_know. _**You**_ need to deal with ___**your **_side of things, and let _**me**_ handle _**my**_ side."

Toris decided that this was a bad time and turned to leave, stepping on a squeaky board as he did. It groaned out loudly, giving him away.

"Toris? Is that you?" Alfred called.

"Yes sir. I brought you some coffee," Toris replied, cringing. Russia would have whipped him soundly for eavesdropping. He didn't know what Mr. Jones would do.

"Come on in here," Alfred called. "It's all right."

Toris pushed open the door and brought in the drinks. Neither person in the room looked upset that he had overheard them. Amelia was looking out the window and turned to look at him when he came in. She walked over and took one of the cups, thanking him for the drink. He noticed that her face looked very pale, and she was sweating slightly.

"Al, all I'm saying is that I don't think it's safe to go throwing money at the other nations without a guarantee that they can repay us," she said, wiping her brow. "I know I usually handle this on my own, but banks are failing like crazy, and our citizens are hardly spending any money because many are unemployed or homeless. I need your help."

"What do you want me to do?" Alfred asked in an exasperated tone.

Amelia rubbed her eyes and then scratched her sleeve. "I don't know." She paused as if she was having a hard time concentrating. "I need some help thinking of ways to create jobs and insure the banks against failure. I think that might be a start." She scratched her face. Then she ran her fingers across her arm and her side as if she was trying to scrape her skin off.

"That sounds good. You see what our options are, and I'll see what I can do to help on my side," Alfred said, sipping his coffee and sitting down in a chair. "But let's talk more about this later. We shouldn't discuss all this in front of Toris."

Amelia nodded and then scratched her side again and then her bicep.

Alfred put down his cup. "What is your problem?" he asked, sounding more annoyed than before. "Why do you keep scratching like that?"

Amelia shook her head and clawed at her arm again. "I don't know why. My skin has been so dry lately. No lotion I've tried works. I think I need to go home and rest. I haven't been feeling well."

_She doesn't __**look**__ well either, _Toris thought.

"You do that," Alfred said.

Amelia nodded and went to gather up her purse from the table near the window.

Alfred gestured to a chair next to his chair. "Toris, why don't you join me for coffee?" he asked as a loud "Thump" came from across the room.

They both turned to see Amelia passed out, lying on the floor.

"Holy mackerel!" Alfred cried, running over to her. Toris followed him.

"What happened, Sis?" Alfred lifted her up, but she didn't respond at all. He touched her face. "What's wrong with her, Toris?" Alfred asked him, looking panicked and confused. "She's burning up!"

Toris felt her forehead. Her skin felt like it was on fire. "We need to get a doctor," Toris suggested. "She's got a high fever."

Alfred reached in his wallet and pulled out a card. "Get this doctor," he said. "If he's not there, wait for him. I don't want any other doctor coming to see her."

Toris furrowed his brow, confused. "Is there any reason why you only want—?"

"Just go!" Alfred said, lifting the girl up and carrying her out of the room. "I'll be on the second floor with her."

When Toris returned with the doctor, an older gentleman named John Smith, it took them a few minutes of searching before they found Alfred in an upstairs room. He'd placed a wet cloth on Amelia's forehead and put lotion all over her skin. She'd been stripped down to her slip and her hair had been loosened to fall around her shoulders and onto the pillow. Her skin looked red and raw as if sandpaper had been forcefully rubbed over it. The doctor Toris had fetched for them examined her while Alfred paced outside the door.

"I'm sure your girlfriend will be all right, Alfred," Toris said, trying to cheer him up.

"She's not my girlfriend," Alfred said, biting his nail. "I should have introduced you two sooner. Amelia's my sister."

"You adopted a non-nation? But why—?"

"Doggone it Toris! She's not adopted or a non-nation," Alfred said, shaking his head and pressing his palm to his forehead. He rubbed his forehead, then dragged his hand down the side of his face as if trying to wipe the stress away.

It took a moment for Toris to understand what Alfred was trying to tell him. _She's a nation?_ The shock from this thought rippled through him like an earthquake. "But how? I don't understand," he said.

Alfred shrugged. "Italy has a brother; I have a sister," he said as if that answered everything. "She takes care of the domestic stuff, and I take care of the foreign."

Toris opened his mouth to ask more questions when the doctor came out of the room.

"I didn't think any of you could get an illness like this," the doctor said, shaking his head. He took off his glasses and cleaned them before returning them to his face.

"What do you mean, Dr. Smith?" Alfred asked, furrowing his brow in confusion.

"She has pneumonia," Dr. Smith said. "Although, it looks like it started out as a cold. I've given her some medicine, but I'm not sure it will work. She's not your _**typical **___patient after all."

Toris understood immediately what the doctor meant. He _**knew**_ what they were; that's why Alfred had requested him.

"I know how quickly your kind heals," Dr. Smith continued. "I don't know what caused this, but I'm sure she didn't get it the same way my other patients have gotten it. I don't know what you have to do, but I think you should speak to your boss about it as soon as possible. Keep her here for a few weeks, maybe a couple of months, until she's strong enough to move around on her own."

"What about her skin?" Alfred asked.

Dr. Smith scratched his head. "My theory is it's caused by the severe drought that's started in the mid-West*****, and all you can do is wait that out," he said. "I've prescribed the best and strongest lotion I can for her skin. Don't let her scratch it anymore. Put mittens on her hands if you have to."

Alfred nodded, taking the prescription the doctor had held out.

The doctor turned to leave but stopped for a moment. "I almost forgot," he said. "She's lost a lot of weight. According to her, she eats all day long and everything she eats is burned off immediately. I suspect the drought has something to do with that as well, but it may be something else entirely. Give her as many nutrients as you can. I don't think she'll starve to death, but there's no point in weakening her immune system further."

Before heading downstairs, Dr. Smith looked Alfred up and down. "All of this doesn't seem to be affecting you at all," he noted. "She must take on all the 'illnesses' for both of you. How fortunate for you."

Toris glared at him for his accusations, but Alfred only nodded and looked guilty as a response.† Dr. Smith turned and left.

Alfred walked into the room where Amelia was and sat in the chair by her bed. Her forehead was beaded with sweat, and her hair looked damp from the perspiration. She weakly opened her eyes and stretched out her hand; he grasped it in both of his hands. He leaned in, brought their joined hands to his mouth to kiss the top of her hand, and furrowed his brow, his eyes filled with concern. Toris stood by the doorway feeling uncomfortable because he didn't know what he could do to help.

"Al, I'm sorry for the trouble you had to go through," she said weakly. "You had to tell another nation about me and get that doctor here."

Alfred shook his head, his eyes wet. "No. Don't say that. I'm sorry I didn't notice you were sick."

Amelia smiled weakly. "Horse feathers. I don't blame you for this. It's part of who I am; it's my job." She coughed and stared up at the ceiling, just breathing laboriously for a minute or so.

"I don't like that doctor," she said finally. "He doesn't look at us the way he does his other patients. I know we don't have a choice; our boss several bosses ago picked him for us, after all. But I don't think he treats us like he does everyone else . . . I bet he thinks it's nice having a government job for life regardless of how good of a job he does."

Alfred grabbed the cloth from the basin where Dr. Smith had left it, soaked it in the water, and then wrung it out and placed it on Amelia's forehead. "Don't talk. You need to rest."

Amelia took a raspy breath and coughed. "What will you do if this cold spreads to the other nations?" she asked, concern written across her face.

Alfred shook his head again. "You've got something much worse than a cold, Sis, but if it does spread to the others . . . I'll take responsibility. I'll apologize." He cringed at the thought. "I'll do what I can to make it up to them . . . If I can. You don't need to worry about anything. Just get well."

Amelia nodded and drifted off to sleep.

"Can I help? I could make something for her when she wakes up," Toris quietly and meekly offered from the doorway.

Alfred nodded. "Thanks buddy. I'll go with you since there's not much I can do for her right now; I tell you the whole story while we wait." He stood and looked back at the sleeping girl next to him, furrowing his brow again.

_I don't think I've ever seen him like this_, Toris thought as they both walked downstairs to the kitchen. Alfred sat in the kitchen and related his and Amelia's entire history to him‡ while Toris made some chicken noodle soup for her.

Toris helped out where he could, doing the work he'd been hired for _and_ tending to Amelia when Alfred couldn't be there. They had to lock the room Amelia was in every time another nation came to visit, but most of the time, they didn't need to worry. It was usually just those three.

One time while tending to her, Amelia had grabbed onto Toris and hugged him with a vise-like grip.

"Amelia . . . I can't breathe," Toris had managed to get out.

"Papa William!" Amelia had said, obviously delirious as she kissed his cheek repeatedly. "Oh Papa! Why have you been gone so long? I've missed you! Is Mama here too? Tell her to stay away until I'm better." With that, she fell asleep, still holding onto him.

Toris had never told her about that time, even after she had started to recover. He hadn't gotten a chance to anyway. The cold had spread to the other nations (except for Russia) quickly enough, and Alfred had to relinquish Toris up to Russia's care again.

The woman now in front of him had to be her. There was no mistaking it.

"Interested in 'Ivan'? What on earth, Amelia? That's ridiculous," Toris said quietly in English. He remembered the sketches in Russia's possession and that made him positive it was her. After Russia took him away from them, Amelia had written him some letters since Alfred was never very good at writing them to catch him up on what had happened. Except for the fact that it was in German, the handwriting that was on those sketches was identical to the handwriting in the letters she'd sent.

"Malika" turned to look at Toris. "Of course, I'm interested in him. Why wouldn't I be? He's a decent, kind, interesting person," she said in German. "Now if you aren't going to show me these rolls, I'm going back to Ivan. We hadn't finished talking."

"No. I really needed your help," Toris replied in German, pointing at the bread in the basket.

"Oh well, I like this kind," Malika said, pointing at one of the types of rolls. She turned to leave.

"You and your brother are playing a very dangerous game, you know," Toris said.

Malika turned back to face him. "What is this 'game' you're speaking of?" she asked. "You certainly are strange. You must have mistaken me for someone else. I'm an orphan, and I have no siblings." She folded her arms, closed her eyes, and thrust her chin in the air in defiance.

"All right. You win. But next time, tell your brother to come up with a pseudonym for you that's more original," Toris said casually, crossing his arms and chuckling. "I mean, your current one is just a Slavic version of your actual name."

Malika laughed and shook her head. She shrugged. "Well you know Al; he likes to keep things simple and complicated at the same time—" Her eyes grew wide, and she looked at Toris, clapping a hand to her mouth.

Toris leaned against the kitchen counter top and smirked. "I'm sorry," he said quietly in English. "Who are we talking about again?"

"I—"

Toris walked over and grabbed "Malika" by the arm, pulling her as far away from the door to the dining room as possible. "I don't know what you're doing here, or why you're doing it, Amelia," he whispered in German. "But it stops tonight. You won't get anything from _**him**_ this way. Leave that to others who do this for their _**job**_."

Malika/Amelia shrugged off his grip. "I have no idea what you're referring to," she said in German with a deadpan expression. "I'm just here because I enjoy spending time with your boss. The Russian lessons are nice too, of course. Now if you'll excuse me . . ." She flipped her long hair over her shoulder.

Toris grabbed her wrist.

"Hey, let go," she said, jerking on her arm.

"If Russia finds out, he might try to kill you or worse," Toris whispered. "Trust me when I tell you that he'll have no problem using you for a bargaining chip or anything else. You don't know him like I do. Get out of this while you still can. I've seen Al get hurt too many times; I don't want to see it happen again."

Malika/Amelia studied Toris's face for a moment, then drooped her head in defeat. "You're right," she whispered quietly in English. "Five months and I have nothing to show for it. I just didn't want to admit defeat. I'll see what I can do about leaving tomorrow morning, but . . . can I at least stay and eat your delicious cooking? I remember how good it tastes and I really am _starving_!"

Toris blushed and nodded.

At dinner, Toris watched as Russia lectured Malika/Amelia over the proper pronunciation of several Russian phrases. If Toris hadn't been able to hear their conversation, he would have guessed they were flirting with each other and talking about something completely different instead of practicing Russian verbs and phrases. They looked into each others' eyes and touched each other often, usually on the arm or hand.

_It's so weird to see Russia act this way, _he mused. _I've never seen him act this way around anyone, nation or non-nation_.

"Da. That was good, very good," Russia said. "Now tell me what you would say if you were at a shop and you wanted to buy something in the display case?"

Malika/Amelia reached out and stroked her finger across the top of Russia's hand as she looked into his eyes and recited in Russian: "I want what is in front of me, please."

Toris felt his entire face flush. _I know she's just practicing how to buy something, but the way she said it. _He glanced over at Russia. His ever-present smile had a nervous quality to it, and his cheeks had turned a dark pink hue.

_Lucky jerk, _Toris caught himself thinking. Natalia's face drifted into his mind, and he began to feel lonely for her. Suddenly, he felt like a voyeur watching them and hurried into the other room to begin washing the dishes.

When he came back out with dessert, he saw that they'd decided to make a "penalty game" of the lesson. Malika/Amelia had to drink a glass of vodka every time she messed up. Toris rolled his eyes. _Any excuse to drink, _he thought as he went back into the kitchen to finish washing the dishes.

When he returned to gather up their dessert plates, Toris noticed that Malika/Amelia had managed to convince Russia to join her. She made sure that Russia's glass was never empty and that he drank two glasses for every one she consumed.

_That won't work,_ Toris thought. _She'll never get him drunk enough for her to leave the country before he comes to. _

When the second bottle was empty, Malika/Amelia produced a small bottle from her bag. "Let's have some of this," she said, holding it up. "It's Karl's special cut brandy." She opened it and poured Russia a glass, which he drank appreciatively.

She poured herself a glass and held it up. "I got this in honor of our five-month anniversary as friends," she said, her speech a little slurred. "So a toast: to walks in the rain, sunflowers, roses, and chance meetings." She smiled warmly as she gazed at Russia.

Russia looked stunned. "Plop!" Something hit the tabletop.

Malika/Amelia looked down at the source of the sound, and her eyes grew wide. "What on earth is that?" she said, pointing to what had fallen on the table.

Russia looked down.

Toris also looked and gasped. Russia's heart had fallen out again.+

"Oh. Don't wooorry," Russia said, his speech completely slurred. "That happens shometimes."

"But it looks like a human heart, Ivan," Malika/Amelia said, shivering. "Whose is it?"

"It's mine," Russia said groggily. He drained the second glass of brandy and then plopped his head down on the table.

Toris's eyes grew wide. _I-i-is he dead?_ Toris wondered, leaning into get a closer look. _Okay, he's breathing, so he's not dead, just drunk. Wait . . . he's drunk? What the?_

"We have to get him to a bed or something," Malika/Amelia said to Toris, panic rising in her voice.

Toris nodded and helped her guide the sleepy Russia into his room.

"His heart," she said, running back to the dining room to retrieve it as Toris lowered his boss onto his king-sized bed. She returned a minute later, cradling it in her hands. "What do I do with it?" she asked Toris.

"I don't know!" he answered. "Russia usually handles it himself when this happens. I guess you could just push it back in." Toris removed Russia's top clothes down to his undershirt. There was a hole where his heart should be.

"Oh. This is so strange," Malika/Amelia said. In her nervousness, she squeezed the heart slightly.

"Careful," Toris said.

Russia giggled.

Toris felt a shiver run down his spine.

"Это щекочет," Russia cooed, smiling up at Malika/Amelia before closing his eyes again.

"Я извиняюсь," she replied. She walked over to where Russia was lying and leaned over, pushing the heart back into place.

Russia clamped a hand onto her hand. "Don't leave, Anya," he said in Russian, clearly half-asleep. A tear leaked out his eyes and trickled down his cheek. "I'm afraid for all of you. Tell your Papa to take everyone and run away."§ He then started to snore softly.

Malika/Amelia tugged on her hand.

Russia held it fast. "не идут," he said between snores.

Malika/Amelia tugged at her hand again and then sighed. "Despite being drunk, he's got too tight of a grip on my hand for me to free myself," she said to Toris. "I'll leave once he really falls asleep and lets go."

Toris nodded and then stared at the larger nation. _I've never seen Russia drunk like this_._ Hell, I've never __seen him drunk __**ever**__._

"You can go to bed," Malika/Amelia said, kicking off her shoes and crawling over Russia so that she could sit on the other side of the bed. Somehow, Russia's grip on her hand never lessened. He merely shifted so that he was facing her. "I'll show myself out and find a way _**home**_ somehow."

Toris nodded knowing exactly which "home" she meant. He turned to leave.

"Thank you for always being a friend," she said.

Toris turned towards her. "No problem," he replied. "I feel like could never pay _**him**_ back for that happy time in my life. I won't tell anyone. I promise."

"Could you say goodbye to Ivan for me?" she asked.

Toris shrugged. "I'll try to do it the best I can," he said, trying to act nonchalant about it, even though the thought of doing that terrified him.

He closed the door to Russia's room and tried not to think about the bruises he might get when he informed Russia that his friend was gone forever. But then, that all depended on _**how much**_ Russia really liked his new friend.

* * *

**A/N**

**If you liked what you've read, please let me know in a review. Faves and alerts make me giddy and giggly. If you have some concrit for me, please let me know as well (you can leave it in a review or PM me, I'll be happy for it either way). If you didn't like what you've read, thank you for taking the time to read this far ^_^ **

**FYI The first part of the chapter title "Ilgai nematytas"** **is Lithuanian**.

**Also, I'm sure you've noticed this, but what a nation calls another depends upon their relationship to or feelings for the other nation. That's why, for example, Toris calls Belarus "Natalia" and her brother "Russia".**

***The severe drought that "Dr. John Smith" (BTW I hoped it was obvious the name was a pseudonym) is referring to covered Kansas, northeastern and southeastern New Mexico, southeastern Colorado, and the panhandles of Texas and Oklahoma (which were all part of the region known as the "Breadbasket" or the "Corn Belt" where the US gets most of its grain). Soil was blown away from 150,000 square miles of farmland. Huge dust storms traveled as far east as New York City and even reached the decks of ships that were 300 miles from the eastern coast. These dust storms were sometimes called Black Blizzards because the dust was dark and dense. A reporter called it "a dust bowl" in an article on April 15, 1935, and the name stuck. The Dust Bowl lasted from 1931 to 1938. Many farmers and ranchers lost their homes and livelihood. Researchers theorize that the causes were more than just the bad weather (caused by the La Nina weather pattern); poor farming practices and over-grazing of the land also played a part**.

† **Please say I'm not the only one who noticed that when America was apologizing for the Great ****Depression in the manga, "Lithuania's Out-Sourcing Series Part 3 (The Great Depression)", he showed no signs of having a cold. The other nations were coughing and miserable. Poland even had a fever and was trying to cool it down with an ice pack. But America didn't need any of that and didn't even let out a tiny cough the whole time. He was more subdued than usual, but that's about it. Also, later on, when England got a cold in the manga/anime during WWII, America still didn't know what "a cold" was. Hence, I came up with the idea that Amelia suffers from all the colds (since they start out domestically) in place of Alfred (and possibly all illnesses a nation can get). Poor girl!**

**BTW most of the other nations didn't start to feel the effects of the Great Depression until around the middle of 1931 to the beginning of 1932, which is why I placed Amelia succumbing to it a little before that time. Because of the severity of the Depression, I decided to make it worse than an average cold for her (colds can turn into pneumonia if left unchecked; I'm speaking from experience).**

**For those interested, the top reasons for the Great Depression: stocks dropping (causing Black Thursday), banks failing, unemployment, drought (the Dust Bowl), citizens weren't consuming/spending money, European countries were defaulting on their loans from the United States, taxes from trade also kept the European countries from buying from the United States as well. Then there was also Germany flooding the European economy with deflated Marks (Y'see it wasn't all the United States' fault; although, the nation did play a big role in it). The Great Depression lasted from 1929-1941, making it the longest economic slump ever suffered by the country.**

‡**See Ch. 2 for explanations and most of Alfred and Amelia's history.**

**§ Anya was a nickname for Anastasia. So you can draw from that who "Papa" was and who Russia was dreaming of.**

**+No I am not trolling you all about Russia and his heart. It's canon! Check it out yo~: It's in volume 1 of the manga, page 50 or so, under the chapter called "Track 2: Power Ranger Allied Forces". There's a 4-panel comic in that chapter that the whole scene was based on. If you don't have the manga, you can always search for the scanlation and find it easily.**

* * *

**Translations:**

**1920s slang**

**sheik = sexy man.**

**Hit the road = hurry**

**Horse feathers = nonsense**

**Language Translations:**

**Иван дорогое = Ivan dearest**

**маленькая сестра = little sister**

**Увидимся позже, Брат! = See you later!**

**Возвращение благополучно, немного один = Return safely, little one**

**Мой возлюбленный Malika, для которого это написано? Когда Вы скажете это мне?= My beloved Malika, for whom is this written? When will you say this to me?**

**Вы наконец прибыли = You have finally arrived!**

**Очень рад познакомиться = It's a pleasure to meet you.**

**Это щекочет = That tickles!**

**Я извиняюсь = Sorry (literally translated: I apologize).**

**не идут = Don't go.**

* * *

Omake:

BTW the rose is the national flower of the United Kingdom. So that note/sketch with the rose and loving sentiments. . .Hint, hint. ;) . . . Actually, poor Ivan . . .

Ivan: "What do you mean 'poor Ivan'?"

Me: "! ! ! Stop sneaking up on me like that!"

Ivan: "Why were you pitying me just now?"

Me: "Um, no reason. I just . . . heh heh" *faints*

Ivan: *catches me* "Not again." *shakes me softly* "Hey, answer my question!"

_Also, I'll be writing a Gakuen Hetalia AU Gender-bend (yes it's an interesting mixture, taip?-that's Lithuanian for "yes?") fic in the near future. It's a GerXfem!Italy one . . . I'm a little nervous b/c I've not written for this pair before; hope I do okay -_-. I've created a sorta-Role Play style forum to help out with things like voting for Student Council and helping out with names for nations who haven't received human names yet_**_._ Please check out my profile for the current poll and links to the forum (come play with me? I'll greatly appreciate it).**


	12. O, What a Tangled Web We Weave

**Ch. 12: "O, What a Tangled Web We Weave . . ."***

Ivan woke to the sounds of birds singing outside his window. The light from the window streamed in and filled the entire room, letting him know he'd slept soundly all night long. Ivan shielded his eyes and felt a slight tinge of headache from the night before. This surprised him because he'd never had a hangover . . . ever . . . not that he remembered, anyway. Ivan sat up and noticed he was only in his undershirt and trousers.

_Why am I? _he wondered, touching his undershirt as he sat there for a moment. He noticed a pair of ladies' black high heel shoes next to his bed. _Malika's still here? _he thought, embarrassed that she saw him dressed . . . or rather, undressed like this. He heard someone's sleeping breath and glanced next to him.

Malika was sleeping on top of the bed covers, fully clothed in the red, button-up blouse and black trousers she'd worn the night before.

A strand of her dark hair was resting on her cheek. Ivan shifted so that he was facing her and gently brushed it back away from her face with his right hand. His fingers lingered on her cheek. Even though his mind felt fuzzy, his memories started to float up from the night before as he gazed at her. He'd had dinner with Malika, and then when they had "Russian lessons" as usual, it had turned into a penalty-drinking game. She had poured both of them glasses of Karl's special cut brandy and toasted him, mentioning all the tender parts of their first meeting.

He felt his cheeks match the warmth he felt from hers as he traced his finger down her cheek and along her jawline. She stirred slightly at his touch, and Ivan pulled his hand away from her face. He felt his heart pound. _Did I wake her?_

She sighed softly but remained asleep.

Ivan remembered that his heart had pounded just as much last night as it was now pounding as he thought about the intimacy of her words in that toast. They would have meant nothing to Lithuania, but between them, they had conveyed volumes of meaning. To Ivan, it had been like she was saying she was glad they'd met and that their relationship was becoming something more to her too . . . and maybe, just maybe, like him, she was feeling some tugging of affection between them and maybe that affection was—and then "Plop!"

Ivan's heart had felt like it was going to leap right out of his chest with that line of thinking, and that's _literally_ what it had done. His eyes grew wide as he recalled that he'd identified the heart as his.

He turned and reached for the faucet-pipe he kept hidden at his bedside behind the nightstand table, just in case. _She's seen too much_. _She's clever enough to figure out by now I'm not a '__normal human'__._ He could feel his heart beating in his chest; someone must have put it back in, and she'd seen it all.

Ivan felt a twinge of regret as his left hand closed around the faucet-pipe's familiar shape. He _**had to**_ protect the secret of his identity at all costs. His duty and his boss demanded it . . . sure Malika would be dead in another 50 years (if she was lucky enough to live that long), and anyone she told might think she was crazy. Only, there was that slight chance someone _**might**_ believe her, and Ivan couldn't risk that.

His instructions from his boss were clear: Make sure the secret doesn't get out. Other nations may feel free to reveal their true natures, but in Soviet Russia that was not allowed. There was one other option: tell her the secret and offer her a government "job" in Moscow with a promise or understanding that she was not to tell anyone. The only problem with that is there was no guarantee she wouldn't talk, and if she ever did, he'd have to put her in an insane asylum with instructions to let no one speak to her. Some government "officials" had already had that happen to them in the past. But thinking of Malika in that kind of a situation hurt so much it made his stomach feel like it was being twisted in a knot. Ivan didn't like that feeling. _If only there was a way to guarantee she'd keep the secret . . ._

Malika audibly sighed, and he heard the bed squeak as she stirred. "Доброе утро, Ваня."

Ivan's muscles froze. He glanced over his right shoulder.

She sat up, stretched, and smiled at him.

His heart ached, and the pipe felt heavy in his hand. _I can't. I can't. I cannot do it_, something inside him screamed. _Not while that smile and those beautiful eyes are directed at me. _

_Then wait until they aren't_, a dark part of him hissed from deep down. _It is your duty to protect the secret. __**You must. **_

Ivan released the faucet-pipe quietly and turned to face her. "Доброе утро, Malika," he replied, putting on a sweet smile. "You stayed here all last night?" he asked in Russian, already knowing the answer.

Malika blushed.

Ivan blinked; that was not the reaction he expected.

"I didn't mean to," she replied in Russian, looking away for a moment. "I helped that Toris fellow carry you in here after you passed out. You got very drunk last night, you see." She looked back at Ivan, then down at the bed covers. "Just so you know, Toris took off your coat and shirt so you'd be more comfortable, not me."

Suddenly Ivan understood why she was blushing and felt a little embarrassed that he was sitting there still only half-dressed. "Perhaps I should get dressed." He swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

"I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable," Malika said, quickly crawling across the bed and touching him on the arm to stop him.

Ivan found himself unable to move as tingling and heat flowed over him from where she was touching him.

She sat down on the bed next to him but didn't pull her hand away. "Please don't worry about it. Papa used to walk around in his undershirt too, so it's not like I haven't . . . seen a m-ma-man . . . dressed like that . . ." Her cheeks colored a deeper pink. "I-I-I just felt embarrassed that I intruded upon your privacy."

_She clearly __**does**_ _feel uncomfortable, yet she tries to hide it, _Ivan thought with an amused smile.

"When I helped Toris lower you onto your bed, you grabbed my hand and wouldn't let go," she continued. "I had planned to leave once you fell completely asleep, but I guess I fell asleep too—at least, that's what I think happened." She rubbed her head. "I really need to talk to Karl about that brandy. My memories of what happened last night are all jumbled up and I don't remember much. Do you?"

Ivan shook his head. "I don't remember much at all," he lied, tapping his head. "There's nothing after that second bottle of vodka."

"One thing I do remember, though, was how tightly you held my hand to your chest," she mused. "I guess that's why I had that strange dream."

"A dream?" Ivan asked, trying not to panic and reach for the faucet-pipe.

Malika let out a quiet laugh and nodded. "I know this is going to sound crazy, but please hear me out and don't laugh too hard. I blame a creative mind mixed with alcohol."

She laughed again and shook her head slightly. "First off, we were walking here from Karl's when suddenly this dark-haired Siberian kitty started following us," she said, gesturing over her shoulder as if the cat was behind them. "For some reason, he reminded me of you, Ivan. Well, the penguins had already introduced us to him earlier, so we didn't think anything of his following us until he started singing 'Alle Leut' geh'n jetzt nach Haus'§. . ."

_What on earth?_ Ivan thought, letting out a chuckle. _I hope she doesn't intend to ask me to interpret this dream._

"Even though it was polite of him to offer, I still told him, 'We don't need a taxi; Ivan's house is not that far away'," she gestured shooing away the cat. "Then a green monkey started asking us for the time, but neither of us had a watch on us." She tapped on her wrist and then continued gesturing as she continued to relate the dream.

_She has to act out every little detail_, Ivan thought only half-listening to what she was saying as he watched her act out the dream. _Adorable things like that are what I love about her_. Ivan paused for a moment to consider what he had just thought; he didn't use that word very lightly, even in his thoughts.

"Then you showed me medovie† recipes, which I think were in the dream because that's what we had for dessert last night, and I took pictures of all of them. Then, after I gave you a sunflower, your heart fell out, and I had to put it back in for you," she said, placing her right hand on the left side of his chest and pushing on it a little. "But it's clear such a thing is impossible: No hole, no scars, just Vanya," she stated, staring at his chest in a daze as if she was still dreaming.

Ivan felt a wave of relief pour over him. _Thank goodness for her fallible human mind_. _It couldn't come to terms with what had actually happened, so it jumbled everything up in her memories and decided the strange part was a dream._

"And then I woke up and saw you . . . what were you reaching for anyway?" she asked, cocking her head to one side.

"My alarm clock," he lied, pointing at the clock on the nightstand table. "I wanted to see what time it was."

"Oh. Okay, did we sleep very late?"

He shook his head.

"So was it very crazy? Do you think I'm weird now?" she asked, looking worried.

Ivan laughed. "You aren't weird, even if it was crazy," he said. _Hmm? Why does my heart and my chest feel warm?_ he wondered, looking down. Malika still had her hand pressed against his chest.

He felt his heart leap and his face grow hot. He examined her hand, her adorable, little hand that had put his heart back in. He imagined he could almost feel the impressions of her warm, delicate fingers ingrained on it. Without thinking, he reached up and placed his hand over hers and pressed both of them closer to his chest, almost as if to keep his pounding heart from falling out again.

Malika looked at their hands and crimsoned deeply. "I'm sorry. I just realized what I was doing. You can let go of my hand now."

Ivan held onto her hand as he lowered them both to rest on the bed covers between them. The action caused a wave of nervousness to flow over him.

"Vanya, what's the matter?"

He moved closer to her and looked into those blue-gray eyes. His stomach flip-flopped. He caressed her palm with his thumb. "Malika, what do you think of me? You don't hate me, do you?" Ivan wondered why her possible answer to those questions made him feel tense.

She smiled. "Of course I don't hate you." She seemed to ponder her answer for a moment. "In fact, I like you quite a bit. You're kind, sweet, and interesting, and those violet eyes are to die for, and I . . ." She trailed off as Ivan brought her palm to his lips.

Those words were all he needed to hear. It didn't need to be a love confession. This was enough for now. _Enough for what?_ something inside his head asked. He chose to ignore it.

"Vanya! What are you doing? !" Malika said, her words returning back to her native German as her face turned scarlet.

Ivan looked up and felt a wave of delight at her expression. "Thanking you," he said in German.

"For what?"

"Touching my heart," he answered, kissing her palm again.

She tried to pull her hand away.

_How cute! She's acting shy,_ he thought. _It almost makes me want to tease her a little._

"That was just a dream," Malika said.

"I wasn't talking about your dream," he said, looking into her eyes.

She stopped pulling away.

Ivan held her hand in his hand and stroked her cheek with the fingers of his free hand. _What's going on? My heart feels like it's being squeezed. Why does it seem difficult to breathe? _"Моя темноволосая лисица . . ." He hesitated only for a moment before continuing. "I think I'm falling in love with you," he quickly said in Russian before he lost his courage.

Malika opened her mouth to reply, then hesitated. "Wait. What did you just say?" she asked in German. "You used a combination of words that I'm not as familiar with."

Ivan smiled. _There's no way I could repeat that in German_, he thought, his cheeks growing hot. _Plus I don't know what she meant or how strongly she meant it when she said she 'liked' me. _He could see that she was concentrating on sounding out what he just said so much she hadn't even noticed that he was still holding her hand or that his fingers were now lingering on her jawline.

"My . . . dark-haired . . .vixen . . ." she said in German, "I think I'm—" Ivan leaned in closer, entangled his fingers in her hair, and pulled Malika into a kiss before she could finish. If she didn't understand what he'd said earlier, there could be no doubt now.

"Ivan, what are you doing? !" Malika said when their lips parted, pushing on his chest. "That Toris fellow might be in the room next to us."

"Is that your only objection?" Ivan asked. "Because he won't disturb us. He'd only come in here if the house was on fire or some other kind of emergency."

Malika paused as if to think about that for a moment. "I—" He kissed her again, cutting off any other protests.

She seemed to pull away only for a moment before returning his kiss. Her hand caressed his bare arm and then moved up behind his neck, and he marveled at how his skin became hot everywhere her fingers softly touched. When their lips parted again, he glanced at her. She'd closed her eyes, and dark lashes graced her flushed cheeks.

Releasing her hand, he cradled her head in his hands as he hovered near her mouth for a moment before lightly brushing his lips over hers. He felt an electric volt pass between them, and a hunger flowed up in him as he pulled her lips in to meet his again.

His hands played with her hair, then wandered to her shoulders. He traced his fingers over her back, her arms, and then back to her shoulders as they continued to kiss. Every time her lips touched his, Ivan felt his heart leap and his entire body tingle.

Malika gently explored Ivan's neck with her fingers, then stroked them through his hair and across his ear, then back to his neck and collarbone. One of her hands had stopped when it had touched his hair, and she'd entangled strands of his pale blond locks around her fingers. Ivan drank in the incredible feeling of slight pain and sheer ecstasy that action created.

She released his hair and pulled him in closer for a longer kiss, her hands running over his shoulders and locking behind his neck to pull him into an embrace. He wrapped his arms around her as well and relished in this new passion he felt from her. They fell on the bed with a soft "Poof!" as they continued that kiss.

She breathed in deeply, and then suddenly she moved away from his mouth. "I need to go to work," Malika said, gasping for breath as Ivan kissed her cheek, then the bridge of her nose, and then her other cheek.

"Call in sick," Ivan said as a wave of desire flowed over him.

"Why would I call—" he cut Malika's words off again as he cupped her chin and brought his mouth to hers, enveloping it. "Vanya, wait," she said, panting as she turned away from him. "Not this fast."

He nuzzled her neck, caressing the hollow of it with his lips before planting them on her warm skin.

She let out a cry of surprise but put her hands on his chest and pushed."Ivan, stop!" she said, looking him in the eyes with an aggravated expression.

Ivan knew he should do as she asked, but he didn't want to stop. He pulled her in closer, covering her lips with his again.

Malika allowed that only for a moment before she brought her knee up into his gut.

Ivan gasped; he actually felt the impact, and that surprised him. He didn't have time pull himself out of his surprised stupor because she then grabbed him, and with her leg, flung him over the bed and across the room‡. He crashed against the wall and slid down to the floor, upside down, feeling more astonishment than pain.

Malika stood up, straightened her clothes, and then looked over at Ivan as he righted himself. He was still so shocked that he didn't bother trying to stand up. She smoothed her dark hair and then flipped it over her shoulder, glaring at him as she did so. "_**I**_ decide how fast that part of our relationship goes, _**not you**_! When I say 'Stop', we stop," Malika said, slipping on her shoes. "Now if you'll excuse me, _Ivan_, I have work to do."

Lithuania burst into the room. "What was that? I thought I heard a cr—" he froze when he saw where Ivan was sitting. "What on earth?"

"Excuse me, Toris," Malika said, walking past him as she walked out the door. "I'll get my things and show myself out."

Ivan heard some noises in the front room and watched Lithuania jump when the door slammed.

Lithuania turned to him. "Russia, what happened?" he asked in Russian.

"Apparently, I pushed on some boundaries I should not have, and she threw me over here," he replied in Russian.

"What?" Lithuania cried. "She _**threw **_you? Are you sure you're not still drunk?"

Ivan brought a finger to his lips. They were still tingling from earlier, and he blushed at the sensation. "Da. I'm not drunk . . . It's interesting, Lithuania. I've never met anyone as strong as her," he mused. "No one . . . except that America."

Lithuania laughed. "D-d-don't be silly," he said. "She couldn't be _**that**_ strong; she's a non-nation human. She probably just used some judo or something like it on you."

"Judo?"

"Yeah, it's a martial art," Lithuania explained. "You can throw an opponent around even if he or she is stronger, bigger, or heavier than you. A lot of young women these days are learning some kind of self-defense, judo included."

"Judo, huh," Ivan said, rubbing his chin. "I could have sworn it was strength, not skill, that I felt."

Lithuania laughed again but said nothing.

Ivan stood up and felt a little dizzy. "Maybe I am a little drunk from last night," he said. "That's probably why I behaved like that earlier."

Lithuania looked curious but didn't ask what Ivan meant by that.

He flopped down on his bed. "Wake me in an hour, da?"

Lithuania nodded and closed the door as he left.

Ivan buried his face in his pillow. He really did feel groggy now that he thought about it. Maybe a nap would clear his mind. _What were you thinking?_ he scolded himself. _A nation doing those things with a non-nation? Relationships of that kind never work. They risk too much . . . unless the non-nation is in on the secret and even then . . ._ He rolled over and got more comfortable.

_But wait,_ Ivan thought. _Doesn't that smelly France have 'relationships' all the time with non-nations of both genders? That's it! As long as it's not a long-time relationship . . . _He scowled. He didn't like the thought of following France's example; it felt cheap, shallow, and lacked all kinds of affection.

_Maybe if I just stay with her for 20 years or so,_ he mused, _then just disappear . . . _He drifted off to sleep with that thought.

* * *

Amelia had been very lucky the night before: Ivan had invited her to his place before she could invite him to hers; she'd managed to trick Toris into letting her stay instead of insisting she leave immediately; she'd given the "tainted brandy" to Ivan without him waiting for her to drink too; she'd convinced Toris that she couldn't break free of Ivan's grip when that really was _**not **_true, which finally, had given her the opportunity to obtain the valuable information she was after from Ivan's briefcase.

But that's where her luck had ended. She'd made one mistake: she'd fallen asleep while waiting for Ivan and Toris to fall asleep. Luckily, waking up early to go to work at the factory every day for the last 5 months had finally paid off. She bolted up out of bed as soon as her internal clock realized it was 6:00 a.m.

_Oh my aching . . . everything,_ she thought, reeling slightly from the type of hangover consuming a whole bottle of vodka by yourself induces. _Wait. Where the hell am I? _She glanced around a bedroom she didn't recognize. She heard someone's sleeping breath and glanced down next to her.

Ivan quietly sighed and continued to sleep.

_Oh._

Carefully climbing off the bed, she quietly opened Ivan's bedroom door and peeked out. _No noise from the kitchen, _she thought. _That means Toris is still asleep. Good. I can't have any witnesses, even if he's a friend._ She sneaked over to where she'd seen Ivan's briefcase the night before.

The latch on it clicked open easily. _Lucky! _Carefully, she pulled out the camera hidden in her bra and photographed each document inside, making sure she kept them in the order they were originally placed (just how Lena had trained her).

She walked over to her bag and hid the camera inside a secret pocket. _Now to get out of here before they wake up_.

She hurried back into Ivan's bedroom to grab her shoes. As she leaned over to pick them up, Ivan rolled over to the side of the bed facing her.

"You called?" he murmured quietly.

_Shit!_ Amelia thought, looking up at him. A wave of relief flooded over her when she realized he had merely been talking in his sleep. _But he'__s probably going to wake up any second now. _She stood up and looked at the bedroom door. _I'll never make it out without him seeing me._ She considered running over to the adjoined bathroom, knowing she could hide in there for a few minutes at least before Ivan came to talk to her, but he started to stir again.

_No choice now_. _The bed's closer_. She hurried back over to the other side of the bed, carefully laid down next to Ivan, facing him, and pretended to be still asleep. She started mimicking what she hoped sounded like breathing while sleeping.

_I need to think up a story for last night if I'm going to get out of here with no questions asked_, she mused. She heard the bed squeak as Ivan sat up next to her. He didn't move for a couple of minutes and she wondered what was going until she felt the bed jostle a little more.

Amelia concentrated as hard as she could on "sleeping". _I need to turn the whole 'heart replacing scenario' into a dream_. _That's the only part that would give him away as a nation, and I'm pretty sure his identity needs to stay a secret, just like with Al and me._

A finger brushed against her cheek, pushing away some hair she'd felt tickling her cheek earlier. When Ivan's fingers lingered on her cheek, she felt it grow a little warm as a reaction. _No. Don't react. It's not embarrassing, it's not embarrassing, it's fine_, she told herself. She felt his finger trace down her cheek and then her jawline. Her skin started tingling where he touched her, so she moved a little as if she was waking up.

Ivan pulled his hand away.

She involuntarily let out a semi-loud sigh of relief, then panicked hoping it didn't sound like she was awake. She felt the bed shift again and opened one eye just enough to peep through her eyelashes.

Ivan seemed preoccupied by something on or behind his bedside nightstand. He reached for whatever it was and was starting to turn back toward Amelia.

"Sis, whatever you do, watch out for that Commie bastard's faucet-pipe," Amelia remembered Alfred saying to her before she had left for her assignment several months earlier.

"Huh? Why should I watch out for a piece of plumbing?" she'd asked.

Alfred had sighed and shook his head. "He uses it as a blunt-trauma weapon and is pretty lethal with it," he had said. "I've managed to make him think that it's no big deal to me, but I always keep an eye on him and watch out for it. You should too."

Amelia hadn't noticed anything like what her brother had described anywhere in Ivan's house the night before. _Perhaps he's reaching for it now? _she wondered as she sighed loudly to signal that she was waking up._ Now how did Lena say I should greet and call him at this point in our relationship? Oh yeah . . ._ "Good Morning, Vanya!" she said in Russian to him.

Ivan stopped whatever he was doing and glanced over his right shoulder at her.

Amelia sat up, stretched, and gave him a smile.

Ivan's expression looked like he was in pain and then as if he was wrestling over something in his mind. Finally, he turned to face her.

Amelia glanced at his hands. They were empty. _Perhaps he wasn't reaching for anything after all, _she mused.

"Good Morning, Malika," he replied in Russian, smiling sweetly at her. He hesitated for a moment. "You stayed here all last night?"

Amelia glanced at Ivan while she tried to think of what to tell him. It was then that she noticed for the first time how physically fit and muscular he was. _Al told me he was strong but I never imagined, _she thought, concluding that she had been too distracted and drunk last night to notice.

"I didn't mean to," she replied, looking away for a moment. She felt her face get hot as she started rehearsing to him about how Toris and she had helped him out last night after he'd gotten drunk.

"Perhaps I should get dressed," he said, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

"I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable," Amelia said, quickly crawling across the bed and touching him on the arm to stop him.

Ivan stopped immediately from getting up.

_I didn't even have to work at convincing him to stay_, she thought as she sat next to him. _How come? _Then Amelia remembered what Lena had told her once during a training session on espionage: "Physical touch is always a good distraction method, especially when your target is male," Lena had said. Amelia decided to leave her hand on his arm to test this out.

Ivan looked a little dazed.

Amelia found herself looking at his muscular arms and chest again. _Stop staring at him; you've seen Al in nothing but his undershirt and boxers before, so this should be no big deal_, she thought as she made up a story along those lines, turning Alfred into "Papa". _Although this is the first time I've seen another m-ma-man like that. _She heard herself stutter as she thought that.

_Pull yourself together, idiot!_ she scolded herself. _Time to throw him off by telling him about the 'dream' you cooked up. _She then relied on her acting skills that she'd learned years before when Alfred had allowed her to help out with making some propaganda films during WWII. She made majority of the dream as crazy as possible so that she could hide the truth inside it. Amelia felt pleased that Ivan looked amused as she rehearsed every silly detail.

_Man, I'm doing pretty well. I'm making up a whole story in Russian,_ she thought, proud of her new language skills. When she finished telling him about her "dream", Ivan looked relieved. She could see it in his eyes. Amelia hadn't stopped to think about what she was saying or doing until she heard herself say, "just Vanya." _Uh-oh. I don't remember everything I just said; I hope I don't have to repeat any of it._

"And then I woke up and saw you . . . what were you reaching for anyway?" she asked, cocking her head to one side and trying to change the subject from the "dream".

"My alarm clock," Ivan said, pointing at the clock on the nightstand table. "I wanted to see what time it was."

_I knew he wasn't as cruel as Al makes him out to be_, she thought. "Oh. Okay, did we sleep very late?"

He shook his head.

"So was it very crazy? Do you think I'm weird now?" she asked, feeling flustered that she still didn't remember everything she'd said.

He laughed. "You aren't weird, even if it was crazy." Ivan blinked and looked down at his chest.

Amelia noticed that she felt light-headed for some reason and felt something pounding under her right hand. It was only then she noticed that she'd placed it on Ivan's chest. _Was I gesturing while telling my story again?_ she thought. It had always been a bad habit of hers.

She felt his heart beat so strongly that Amelia worried it might try to escape again. Her heart started matching his rhythm. _Why in the . . .?_ she wondered when Ivan unexpectedly placed his hand on hers, and she felt a tingle all the way up her arm.

She looked at their hands and felt the blood rush to her cheeks. "I'm sorry. I just realized what I was doing. You can let go of my hand now."

Ivan didn't let go of her hand as he lowered both of their hands to the bed covers. His face went a little pale.

_What's with that expression? _"Vanya, what's the matter?" she asked.

He moved closer to her, looked in her eyes, and caressed her palm with his thumb. "Malika, what do you think of me? You don't hate me, do you?"

"Of course I don't hate you," Amelia said, smiling. _Is that all it was? I thought he'd figured out that I remembered what happened last night,_ she thought and then hesitated. _I should give him some reasons why I like him but keep them vague and friendly_.

She really did like Ivan; he had been a good and kind friend to her. She couldn't understand what was so bad about him that Al and Toris tried to continually convince her of. The affection she felt for Ivan was nothing compared to what she felt for Arthur, though. As she recited the reasons she liked Ivan, Amelia found herself floating back to England and WWII in her mind.

Suddenly Ivan kissed the palm of her hand.

"Vanya! What are you doing? !" Amelia said, falling back into German. Her face felt like it was on fire, and everything felt like it was spinning.

Ivan looked up from her hand and smiled. "Thanking you," he said in German.

"For what?"

"Touching my heart," he answered, bringing his lips to her palm again.

Amelia started pulling her hand away. "That was just a dream," she said.

"I wasn't talking about your dream," Ivan said, locking her in his gaze.

Amelia stopped dead in her tracks and suddenly couldn't breathe. _If not the dream, what's he talking about then? _For reasons she didn't want to acknowledge, she was starting to felt anxious. _This feels like he's about to . . . _

Ivan held her hand in his hand and stroked her cheek with the fingers of his free hand. She felt unable to move away from him for some reason.

"Моя темноволосая лисица," he said.

_Wait. What did he just say?_ She recognized "my" and some variation of "hair" but the other words threw her for a moment.

"I think I'm falling in love with you," he said in Russian.

Amelia felt her mouth drop open. _Falling in love with me?_ _N-n-no . . . I hadn't meant for it to go that __far, _she thought_._"Wait. What did you just say?" she asked in German. "You used a combination of words that I'm not as familiar with."

Ivan only smiled and blushed in response to her question.

_Good. It's too embarrassing for him to say in German_, Amelia thought. _He'll drop it and tell me 'never mind', just like all the other non-nation men I've turned down this way after they've hit on me . . . heh . . . I think I'll push it a little further . . . then I'll be able to just walk right out of here. He'll be too embarrassed to stop me. _

She did her best to translate his words into German."Meine . . . dunkelhaarige . . . Füchsin . . ." she said, "Ich glaube, ich bin—" Suddenly Ivan leaned over, threaded his fingers in her hair, and drew Amelia into a kiss before she could repeat everything he'd said.

Her mind reeled in shock. "Ivan, what are you doing? !" Amelia said he moved away from her lips. She pushed on his chest. "That Toris fellow might be in the room next to us."

"Is that your only objection?" Ivan asked. "Because he won't disturb us. He'd only come in here if the house was on fire or some other kind of emergency."

_Stupid Toris . . . letting Ivan intimidate him so much,_ Amelia thought. "I—" He enveloped her mouth in his, cutting her off again.

_No! _she thought, her eyes widening. _I don't like this. I really only want to do this with Arthur after all. _She started give into the urge to pull away when suddenly the advice Lena had given her last night came into her mind. Lena had stopped her before Amelia and Ivan had left Karl's to give it to her.

"Look, I'll tell you this now before anything happens," Lena had said. "Seduction is the key weapon of a honey pot spy. Whatever affection you've manage to 'fake' up to this point you can only credit to your acting skills and my training. But if you kiss or do anything physical with Braginski and you don't mean it, it's very likely he'll be able to tell. From our sessions, I know that you don't have the experience to fake your way through that. Think of someone you love . . . try imagining Braginski as that Arthur fellow you've mentioned many times before."

_I need to turn this to my advantage, _Amelia thought. She closed her eyes and started kissing Ivan back. _Maybe if I do this with him a little bit, that will satisfy him. After a few smooches, I can stop and make up an excuse to leave._

She imagined messy hair, beautiful green eyes under thick eyebrows, and the slight smile Arthur sometimes wore in the photos she'd seen at Alfred's place. _Arthur is kissing me,_ she thought, her cheeks growing warm at that thought. _This is Arthur's bare arm and shoulder,_ she told herself as she ran her hand up Ivan's arm and behind his neck. In her mind's ears, Arthur had whispered earlier, "I think I'm falling in love with you, Amelia." She felt her entire face grow hot as she blushed in reaction to those words. Suddenly kissing back became easy; in fact, it was starting to feel nice.

"Arthur" released her hand and cradled her head in his hands. He seemed to hesitate for a moment as if he was trying to tease her. She could feel his warmth as he lingered near her mouth, then he lightly swept his lips over hers, sending a sensation all over her body that made her feel as if she was going to faint.

He pulled her in closer and kissed her with an urgency that scared and excited Amelia at the same time. As they exchanged several kisses, she felt her face and body grow hotter as their lips met over and over again. It tickled and tingled everywhere as he ran his hands through her hair, over her back, her arms, and then back to her shoulders.

Amelia caressed "Arthur's" neck with her fingers, then ran them through his hair and across his ear, then back to his neck and collarbone. She entangled her other hand in his hair, twisting some soft strands around her fingers.

Keeping her mind's eyes open and her actual eyes closed, Amelia moved away only for a moment before releasing his hair, wrapping her arms around "Arthur", and pulling him into a longer, heart-felt kiss as if it was the most natural thing to do in the world. She felt him tightly enfold her in his arms, and it felt like he was squeezing her heart as well. She barely noticed the softness of the bed and blankets as they fell onto it with a soft "Poof!"

As they continued the kiss, Amelia noticed that "Arthur" smelled like chamomile and sunflowers. Suddenly he wasn't Arthur anymore; Arthur's natural smell was deep woods after rain. Years ago, during WWII, she'd smelled it on him and had never forgotten that. She couldn't pretend anymore.

She pulled her mouth away from Ivan's. "I need to go to work," Amelia said, gasping for breath as Ivan kissed her on her cheek, then the bridge of her nose, and then her other cheek.

"Call in sick," he said.

_Call in sick? What is he suggesting? _she wondered. "Why would I call—" she started to say before Ivan returned to her mouth, silencing her.

_Dammit. I can't seem to stop him,_ she thought. "Vanya, wait," Amelia said, panting as she turned away from his mouth. "Not this fast."

Ivan ran his nose and then his lips across her neck, before bringing them just above her collarbone and planting a kiss there. It tingled and felt hot everywhere his lips touched her.

_Holy crap! This has gone too far_! she thought as she let out a cry of surprise and put her hands on his chest. She pushed on his chest with the strongest "non-nation" strength she could guesstimate for someone her build. "Ivan, stop!" she said as she made eye contact, slightly irritated that she couldn't force him off with her actual strength. _If he's any kind of a gentleman, he'll do as I ask __**right now**_.

Ivan looked like he was considering it, but instead he pulled her in for another kiss.

Amelia felt her heart start pounding frantically, and her whole body became hot. Part of her wanted to keep going, but another part of her was upset that he hadn't stopped when she'd asked him to. Besides, she didn't feel for him like she felt for—

_Arthur! _her mind shouted. Then it went blank, and her body and mouth just moved on their own after that.

The next thing she became aware of was the cool breeze of the spring morning on her face. She'd ended up outside somehow. Amelia stopped, touched her lips, and frowned. She could still feel Ivan's kisses on them, and they tingled. What upset her about that was not the kisses, however; it was that she had _**liked**_ them. Her cheeks burned as she remembered how each one felt.

_What the hell were you doing? What are you thinking? _she scolded herself_. Aren't you in love with Arthur? _Then she pinched her arm until it hurt_. I was only pretending, _she reassured herself as her arm throbbed in pain. _It was Arthur's kisses that I liked so much, not Ivan's. Arthur was the one who made me feel that way, not Ivan. _

Amelia cheerfully patted her bag and thought about its valuable contents: the mini-camera. The "work" she told Ivan she needed to do was get the information she'd gathered to Al as soon as possible. She started to walk again.

The memory of what had just happened drifted back into her mind again. _But if it was 'Arthur', not Ivan, who made me feel that way, then what was that last part when I knew_ _it __**wasn't**_ _Arthur? _she wondered. Her legs suddenly felt like stakes driven into the ground, and her stomach felt nauseous as she mulled over this new thought.

". . . lika, wait!" Amelia heard Toris call out in German. He was running down the pavement towards her. She stared and waited for him to catch up to her; she couldn't move even if she had wanted to.

"What happened in there?" he asked when he finally reached her, panting and trying to catch his breath.

"Didn't he tell you?" Amelia asked in German.

Toris shook his head and shrugged. "What he said didn't make any sense at all."

She thought for a moment, and everything came back to her crystal-clear. "He wanted to go farther than I did, and I rejected him by giving him a quick kick to the gut and throwing him across the room," she stated, matter-of-factually.

"You used your regular strength to do it?" Toris stated more than asked.

Amelia's mouth dropped open.

_Shit._

"I wasn't thinking at all. My body just moved on its own. Damn self-defense course! Why'd Al make me take that stupid class anyway?" she cried. Her heart leapt to her throat when she thought about all the horror stories Alfred had told her about an angry Russia. "What'll I do? Ivan's no dummy; he'll figure it out," she said. "Al's gonna kill me; that is, if Ivan doesn't do it first."

"I don't think Russia wants to kill you," Toris said. "He seemed more intrigued than angry. Of course, sometimes I can't tell what he's thinking."

Amelia paced back and forth; she only half-heard what Toris was saying. She was too preoccupied with the danger she'd put herself and the mission in. "I've gotta leave. I need to disappear," she rambled. "Argh! There's no way. I need more time to initiate the exit strategy. Dammit!"

Amelia bit her thumbnail as she considered the alternate strategy she and Al had worked out: knocking out some Wall guards and scaling the Berlin Wall. Even if she was shot at, even if a bullet managed to hit her, she should be able to make it to the other side quickly, if not easily. But she really didn't want to use that strategy; she'd already learned from experience that not dying from things that should kill you hurt a lot. Besides, Al had told her only to go for that strategy if she was in desperate straits.

"Relax," Toris said, grabbing her shoulders and pulling her out of her musings. "I told Russia that you knew judo or some martial art like that and that's why you could throw him like that. Just stick to that story."

Amelia felt a wave of relief rush over her. She bear-hugged Toris.

"Um . . . Amelia . . . I can't breathe . . ." he managed to get out.

"Sorry," she said, releasing him. "And don't call me that. Remember, I'm Malika while I'm here, and you really don't know me that well. You really are smart, you know that?" She squeezed his shoulders.

"Thanks," Toris said, blushing and scratching his head.

Amelia turned to leave.

"Hey wait. Just one more thing," Toris said.

She turned back towards him.

"You'd better give me your Berlin phone number," he said. "That way I can warn you if Russia decides that he is angry at you after all and you need escape."

_That seems reasonable, _Amelia thought as she weighed the suggestion. She dug for a pen and scrap of paper in her bag, wrote down her phone number, and handed it to him.

"Goodbye," Toris said. "I don't know when I'll see you again, but I hope you stay well until then."

They clasped hands.

"Same to you, Toris," she said, smiling. _He really is a good friend._ She watched Toris walk back down the pavement to Ivan's house and then headed back to her apartment.

Amelia saw a couple kiss goodbye as one of them left for work, and her mind went back to what happened that morning. She felt her cheeks burn and her whole body tingle. _It's just physical attraction or whatever,_ she told herself. _He doesn't make my heart pound like even __**thinking **__of Arthur does. Physical attraction . . . nothing more. _

She continued to tell herself that all the way back to her apartment. Amelia turned her key in the door and went in feeling gloomy as she turned on the nearest light.

"Sehr gut, Honigtopf," Lena said from the shadows.

Amelia nearly jumped out of her skin. She glared at her handler and suspected that Lena got some secret enjoyment out of scaring the wits out of her. "What do you mean, 'very good'? What are you praising me for?" Amelia asked in German.

"You stayed overnight," Lena stated, laughing. "And you, silly girl, thought you didn't have it in you to do that with anyone but Arthur."

Amelia remembered again what she'd done that morning. _Wi__th anyone but Arthur_ rang in her head and tears started streaming down her cheeks.

Lena walked over to Amelia and gently grabbed her shoulders. "Oh dear. Please tell me that last night was _**not**_ your first time?" she asked, concern written all over her face. "I assumed that since you were lovers with your Arthur, you had already—"

"Arthur's not my lover," Amelia said between sniffs. She felt her cheeks crimson with embarrassment.

Lena stepped back and studied Amelia's face. "But you want him to be," she concluded.

Amelia nodded. "I've loved him for . . ." She stopped and calculated it in her head. _About 38 years_. She let out a laugh because she knew she couldn't share _**that**_ with Lena. "Let's just say, for a long time," she said instead. "But I don't know how he feels about me." _I'm not even sure he remembers who I am_, she thought as she recalled that all the times they'd met, she'd always managed to forget to tell him her name, or they'd been interrupted by someone . . . usually her loving brother Alfred.

"Well you'd better not let him know what you did with Braginski before you find out how he feels about you," Lena said. "Otherwise, he might not forgive you for it."

Amelia felt the tears really pour out of her eyes when she heard that. "But all we did was kiss! You mean that Arthur won't forgive me for kissing Ivan?"

Lena stared for a moment and then laughed. "You _**only kissed**_?" she said, between laughs. "Then why are you crying, silly girl?"

"I only wanted to kiss Arthur . . ."

"Too late for that kiddo," Lena said, smacking her on the arm. "So stop crying about it. If this Arthur fellow does end up caring for you, then I'm sure he'll make it so you forget every kiss you've had before, and if he doesn't forgive you for those previous kisses, he's not man enough to stay with anyway."

Amelia wiped away her tears and hiccupped. "Really?"

Lena nodded. "Even though I'm around your age, I have had a lot more experience with love and sex than you," she said. "Take it from someone who knows. Not forgiving someone for kissing another person before you date each other is just plain silly and stupid."

Amelia smiled and sighed, drying the rest of her tears.

"Besides, all that kissing got you what you wanted, right?" Lena asked. "Give me the microfilm from your camera, and I'll take care of it for you." She held out her hand.

Amelia shook her head. "Sorry. I have orders that I can't give it to anyone but the person in charge of this whole operation."

"That's absurd. It could take months to get that outside of the Eastern Bloc, and until then, we might be able to use some of that information," Lena argued.

Amelia shook her head again. "Some of this information is too sensitive to share, but I promise that you'll get all the information that's useful to you."

Lena frowned. "I've heard that promise before, but it was never kept."

"You can trust me on this," Amelia said. "The guy in charge and I have an agreement that allows me to set certain conditions as payment for this assignment; I'll add your request to the list."

Lena raised an eyebrow and then shook her head. "I don't even want to know what that's supposed to mean," she said. "So what now?"

Amelia walked over to her desk and wrote something on a piece of paper. "We send this message via telegram to this number, and then I wait for my contact to give me further instructions based on what I've gathered."

Lena took the paper out of Amelia's hand. "Cake recipe acquired. Stop. Baking instructions requested urgently. Stop," she read. "What the hell? If this is code, I've never seen it in our code-books."

"Yeah, well . . . it's a special code to notify my contact that I need him to call me right away," Amelia said. "So can you tell me where I can send this?"

"There's a place a few blocks from here," Lena said. "Oh. I almost forgot to ask. Did that sedative you put in the brandy work out for you?"

Amelia smiled and decided not to confess how many sedatives she'd actually used. Lena had said two were enough to knock out a full-grown man less than 20 minutes, and she'd used three. "It worked really well, actually, thanks," she said.

* * *

"Russia. Russia, wake up," Lithuania called.

Ivan lifted his head but didn't open his eyes. "You have some sort of death wish, da?" he asked, flopping his head back onto his pillow. He still felt drained.

"No! You told me to wake you in an hour," Lithuania protested.

Ivan's mind started to work again when he heard Lithuania say that. "Call home and tell them we have business that requires we stay in Berlin for a few days," Ivan said, "and then get Prussia on the line."

"Prussia?"

"Da. Once he's on the line, bring me the phone."

After a few minutes, Lithuania brought in the phone from the front room, doing his best to not unplug the cord. Ivan sat up and grabbed the receiver.

"Prussia?"

"Ja," Prussia replied, yawning and sounding annoyed. "What is it?"

"So sorry to interrupt your nap," Ivan said, feeling irritation at his underling's impertinence. "Perhaps I should come there and help you sleep more soundly, da?"

"I wasn't napping!" he heard the other nation protest, panic rising in his voice, making it crack slightly. "It's just that I've just _**barely **___finished all the jobs you gave me, and I was feeling a little tired, that's all. So what's up? You have another job for me already?"

"Da. I need you to come here," Ivan said.

Silence echoed on the other end for a couple seconds.

"To Berlin?"

"Of course, dunderhead," Ivan said. "Where else?"

There was another, longer pause on the other end of the line.

"Why?" Prussia asked finally. "I finished everything you wanted me to take care of there two weeks ago while you handled your other business in town. I know I didn't forget to do anything because I'm awesome like that."

Ivan weighed carefully his next question. He really didn't want to sound like he was praising Prussia. "Are you really as good with German women as you brag?" he asked. He heard Prussia let out a small laugh.

"Natürlich! Ich bin ein Frauenheld!" he crowed.

"Good. Come to Berlin as quickly as you can, da?"

* * *

**A/N**

***The title is, of course, from the famous lines—"Oh what a tangled web we weave, / When first we practise to deceive!"—in Sir Walter Scott's poem, **_**Marmion (**_**Canto vi. Stanza 17). Scott (a Scottish author & novelist {1771 – 1832})** **is warning us that a liar or deceiver spins a web or trap for himself/herself, not realizing it until it's too late to untangle himself/herself. *shakes head * Alfred . . . Amelia . . . what were you thinking by believing this would all go the way you wanted it ****to?**

†**Medovie/Honey Layer Cake is a very popular Russian dessert. This cake usually has about 5-7 layers but can have up to 15 layers. It is extremely delicious and becomes a favorite of almost anyone who tries it. It could resemble sheets of paper laying on top of each other, which is why Amelia used it; she was talking about the documents she photographed.**

‡ **The throw I was imagining is something similar to the circle throw (in judo) only it would be performed while Amelia was laying on her back, not standing as is standard for this move. This is one of the moves I learned from my self-defense course when your "attacker" has you in the same position Ivan had put her in.**

* * *

**Translations**

**Доброе утро, Ваня = Good morning, Vanya—Please note: this is the diminutive form of Ivan and is a form a woman would use as a term of endearment. It would be the same as saying "Ivan darling" or "dearest Ivan" (Lena knew why she was instructing Amelia to call him this, but Amelia didn't 100% understand that she was using a term of endearment; she thought it was just something that people who are close say). So you can now see why Ivan reacted the way he did . . . (Ivan just repeats good morning to her, so I saw no point in repeating the translation here)**

"**Alle**** Leut' geh'n ****jetzt****nach****Haus****" is a German children's song, "Everyone, Everyone Is Going Home" (see the translated lyrics below)**

**Моя темноволосая лисица = My dark-haired vixen (Russian)**

"**You called?" I know that Russia's catchphrase is "Yonda?" and that's the canon way to say it, but for some reason I felt the need to translate it. =_= I hope that you won't be bothered by that.**

**Meine dunkelhaarige Füchsin = My dark-haired vixen (German)**

**Ich glaube, ich bin = I think I am (German)**

**Sehr gut, Honigtopf = Very good, honey pot.**

**Natürlich! Ich bin ein Frauenheld! = Of course! I'm a lady-killer! **

* * *

**§Alle Leut' geh'n jetzt nach Haus**

**Alle Leut', alle Leut' geh'n jetzt nach Haus'  
Alle Leut', alle Leut' geh'n jetzt nach Haus'  
Grosse Leut', kleine Leut',  
Dicke Leut', dünne Leut'  
Laute Leut', leise Leut'  
Alle Leut', alle Leut' geh'n jetzt nach Haus'**

Alle Leut', alle Leut' winken sich zu,  
Sagen auf wiedersehen,  
Das war heut' wieder schön.  
Alle Leut', alle Leut' winken sich zu. 

**Translated Lyrics:**

**Everyone, everyone is going home.**

**Everyone, everyone is going home.**

**Big people, little people,**

**Fat people, thin people,**

**Loud people, quiet people,**

**Everyone, everyone is going home.**

**Everyone, everyone is waving goodbye.**

**We say goodbye,**

**That was fun again today!**

**Everyone, everyone is waving goodbye.**

* * *

**Ivan: "It's a cute song, da?"**

**Me: *starts* "Oh, y-yes; it is." **

**Ivan: "So what happens next?"**

**Me: "Wait . . . don't you know?"**

**Ivan: "No. I'm '1982-Ivan'. I'm only seeing things as they happen."**

**Me: "I see . . . that explains a lot from earlier."**

**Ivan: "So once we clear up this one little misunderstanding, Malika and I are going to live happily ever after, da?"**

**Me: ". . ." *runs away* **

**Ivan: "Where are you going?"**


	13. When First We Practise to Deceive

**A/N Yay! Prussia/Gilbert's POV! ^_^ (Please note that when Gil is in the United States, he's speaking in English. It interrupted the flow of the action in the scene to follow my usual pattern of indicating what language was being spoken).**

* * *

**Ch. 13: " . . . When First We Practise to Deceive"***

"Have you ever tried to coax a wild animal into trusting you?" Russia asked Gilbert in German as he set down his bags after arriving by cab from the Berlin Airport. "Say like, a fox, just for the sake of example."

Gilbert raised an eyebrow. _Why the hell is he talking about getting a fox to trust him?_ _And what does this have to do with why he asked me about how I am with women earlier?_

"From my experience, if you trap it, the fox will never trust you and will always be afraid of you or snap at your hand when you try to touch it," Russia continued. "If you coax it with food, it might come—"

"Or it might just snatch the food and run away anyway," Gilbert suggested. He was awesome when it came to hunting. It was something he got to do whenever he wanted to before the Wall went up. Now things were just plain boring. This line of conversation, however, was confusing, and that made it interesting.

"Exactly," Russia said. "But I've noticed if you do something that makes the fox feel indebted to you, for example, let's say you rescue it from someone else's trap, then it will be loyal to you for the rest of its life, da?"

Gilbert suspected Russia wanted him to read between the lines. He decided not to give him the satisfaction. "What the hell are you talking about? What does this have to do with me?"

"I want you to flirt with this girl we're going to meet," Russia said.

"What? Why? I don't need you to be my matchmaker," Gilbert stated. Russia sighed, and Gilbert suppressed the smirk he felt at seeing Russia's frustration at his "misunderstanding" him.

"I want you to be the 'other person's trap'," Russia said, his voice rising with slight exasperation. "_**I'm**_ going to rescue her from _**you**_."

"Wait. You want this fox?" Gilbert asked. "But she's a non-nation."

"What makes you think she's a non-nation?" Russia asked.

Gilbert pointed at his eyes. Russia had procured brown-colored contacts for him a few years ago when they had become available and insisted that he wear them whenever they were around non-nations who didn't know about the nations. Red-violet eyes were just too unique of a color. "You called me back before I left to remind me to wear these, remember?"

"Even if she is a non-nation, why should that matter?" Russia asked, giving Gilbert that insipid smile that he seemed to wear almost all the time regardless of the situation.

"I just never figured you and a non-nation would spend time together enough for you to want to . . . um . . . spend more time with her," Gilbert said, carefully choosing his words.

"Why is that so hard to believe, Prussia?" Russia asked.

_Because you're a heartless bastard_, Gilbert thought. _Not even other nations can stand to be around you. _"Well, because you're always pragmatic about your feelings and relationships with non-nations," he said instead. He had no desire to get on Russia's bad side, even if it meant sacrificing one of his people. Russia had made sure that he understood that lesson when he first came to the Moscow house. Now, Gilbert made sure Russia had as little physical contact with him as possible; he didn't like having to wear splints and bandages all the time.

Russia shifted nervously and blushed.

Gilbert stared. He'd never seen Russia look like that before.

"So if I've done something to make this fox a little upset with me," Russia said finally, "What can I do to make it up to her?"

Gilbert mused about whether or not he should be resistant or impudent about his advice. An ache in his shoulder reminded him that neither was a good attitude to have. "Roses are always a nice gift to get on a woman's good side."

"Go buy some, da?" Russia commanded. "Lithuania needs to buy some food; you can go together."

After leaving the house, Gilbert and Toris walked down the street towards the market for a couple minutes without speaking.

"What's up with this non-nation and Russia?" Gilbert asked finally. "Does he really care about this girl?"

"I don't know. I think he does," Toris said. "I think he wants to ask her to move to Moscow with him. He asked me to look into getting her a house there but not one too close to the Moscow house."

"What? ! Can he do that?" Gilbert asked. "Get a house for a non-nation, that is . . . Wait . . . so he plans on living with us and visiting her . . . heh . . . I'll bet he's planning on staying overnight at her place too. I can't believe I keep forgetting how calculating he is. But why a non-nation? He's got that Belarus fawning over him; why not hook up with her?"

"They're related, idiot," Toris said, shooting daggers with his eyes at him.

"Oh yeah, I forgot," Gilbert said. "Well, now that I know he likes her that much, I can't wait to ruin things for him. I mean, he actually asked me to play the 'big bad wolf' for his girlfriend so he can look good." He kicked a rock.

"Gilbert, please just do as he asks, even if it kills you inside to do it," Toris said. "I'm getting really tired of patching you up all the time, and punishment for your impudence doesn't always just affect you."

Gilbert scowled. "Fine, I won't screw it up then. Scheiße, nothing's fun anymore," he said. "But, you know I'm damned if I do and damned if I don't. I think his rescuing her will probably involve him beating me up . . . if I end up in the hospital, which is likely unless I can flirt with this girl in public and Russia has to watch what he does—"

"I actually think he'll control himself for her sake," Toris said. "He doesn't want to scare her into thinking he's violent. I've never seen him try this hard to impress or please someone before. I mean, he even asked _**you**_ for advice. No offense."

"None taken."

After they returned with the food and flowers, Russia immediately insisted that they come with him to deliver the red roses Gilbert had picked out. The three nations must have looked out of place waiting by this young lady's apartment complex because several neighbors stared as they walked by.

Gilbert glanced over at Russia who was staring determinedly down the street."You know, if you squeeze those roses any tighter, you're going to crush them into a green and red paste," he stated, secretly amused at how nervous Russia looked.

Russia relaxed his hold on the roses and perked up as a young, dark-haired woman walked down the pavement towards them, carrying some grocery bags. She looked dead tired.

_What the hell is __**Amelia**__ doing __**here**__? ! _Gilbert thought as soon as he saw her. _Wait if she's the one that Russia fell for . . . no wonder he felt attracted to her. Falling for a nation makes more sense, even if Russia doesn't know that's what she is._

Amelia/Malika noticed them."Ivan, what are you doing here?" she asked in German.

"I want to apologize for this morning. It was thoughtless of me to not obey your wishes," Russia replied in German, thrusting the bouquet at her. "Here."

She shifted the bags and took the flowers from his hand.

_What the? Russia __**never**__ apologizes to anyone,_ Gilbert thought.

Amelia/Malika gazed lovingly at the roses, then sniffed the flowers. "Thank you, _Vanya_," she said, blushing. "No one's ever given me flowers."

Russia looked shy.

She glanced over at Gilbert. "So who's your friend?"

"Oh, Malika, this is Gilbert Beilschmidt," Russia stated. "He's an employee of mine just like Toris is. Only he'll be helping me here in Berlin. Gilbert, this is my friend, Malika Fuchs."

Gilbert smirked. Suddenly the "fox" references made perfect sense.

"How do you, Herr Beilschmidt?" Amelia/Malika said, offering her hand to Gilbert.

He numbly shook it. _Hmm? She doesn't recognize the awesome me? She's faking. I know it's her. What I don't get is how her over-protective brother would even let her out of the States._

"Why don't you gentlemen come in? I don't have much, but I could make us all some dinner," she said.

"No, we didn't want to impose on you," Russia said, holding up his hands.

"It's not an imposition; I insist," she said, smiling warmly at him. "Let me thank you for these beautiful flowers. Besides, I'm making goulash, so it's not like I won't have enough to share."

"Let me at least reimburse you for my employees' meals," Russia said, reaching for her grocery bags. "Here I'll take those up for you."

As he bent over to take the bags, Amelia/Malika kissed him on the cheek. "Apology accepted, by the way," she said. Russia blushed profusely and stood up straight and rigid as she took his arm and started to walk with him up to her apartment.

"Russia said he needed to coax, as he put it, this 'fox', to come to him," Gilbert whispered to Toris as they walked behind the couple, "but it looks like he's already caught her."

Toris looked sideways at him. "Trust me, he hasn't. She's already rejected his advances once. That's why he was apologizing."

Gilbert covered his mouth as a laugh leaked out. _If only he knew who he was apologizing to_. _He wouldn't have been so eager to do it. _

Russia stopped for a moment and turned around.

Gilbert felt his heart thunder in his ears as he worried that the large nation had heard him.

"Toris, I think you should go get some more food for Malika," he said. "You two eat like you're bottomless pits. Malika, could you give him a list of what to get?"

She nodded and wrote out a list on a slip of paper from her purse.

Toris grabbed the list and hurried away.

Gilbert followed Russia and Amelia/Malika into her apartment and watched as Russia helped her out of her coat. For some reason, that little act of courtesy made him nauseous. Amelia/Malika hurried into the next room and then returned with the roses in a vase. She set them on the table, smiled at them, and then leaned over to smell them again. She closed her eyes, and it seemed like she was literally drinking in the scent as she inhaled deeply. Russia grinned at this reaction. Gilbert felt ill. This whole scenario was all wrong.

_She looks a little older than she did before, and her hair is longer and darker, but it's definitely her. Even if it was over 200 years ago since I last saw her, _Gilbert thought as he recalled the first time he met Amelia/Malika.

Gilbert had been training with her brother during the American Revolutionary War. He had been training Alfred on how to block a bayonet attack with his musket and attack with his own bayonet. The younger nation had caught on quickly what to do and was dominating their "mock battles".

"That asshole isn't going to 'win' this time," Gilbert had muttered to himself, wiping the rain out of his eyes. "I'm going to make sure I strike before he does." He had heard some noise from the brush and watched as Alfred had stumbled out into the small clearing where Gilbert had stopped to rest. Alfred hadn't noticed him yet, so the Prussian nation had decided to sneak up on him.

Several branches had snapped loudly off to Gilbert's left as someone else came clumsily through the brush. Both nations watched as a Redcoat, his face and uniform dirty with mud and leaves, stumbled into the clearing. The soldier's eyes grew wide when he saw them. He stepped toward Alfred who gasped in surprise, lowered his musket, and stepped toward the soldier.

"Scheiße! What the hell are you doing Alfred? !" Gilbert shouted as he lunged at the soldier with his bayonet, assuming the soldier had been instructed by England to attack the younger nation.

"Wait! He's not a Redco—" Hearing Alfred's warning too late, Gilbert was unable to stop the bayonet's forward motion. The Redcoat barely deflected it away from his heart with his musket; the bayonet pierced the soldier's right lung instead. Lightning flashed and the storm thundered one last time before it started to let up.

"No . . ." Alfred's face went pale as he dropped his musket and stared.

"What? You saying he's one of ours?" Gilbert asked, pulling his bayonet out of the soldier.

The soldier coughed out some blood and fell to the ground.

Gilbert rushed over to the soldier. He unfastened the buttons on the young man's coat and shirt and exposed his chest. _Maybe I missed any vital spot_. _What the? H__e was already wounded?_ He stared at the bandages wrapped around the soldier's chest. _No fresh blood on them . . . probably from an old wound . . .good, I'll use them for the bayonet wound until we can get some medical treatment._

Gilbert grabbed his knife and carefully cut through the bandages exposing the soldier's skin underneath. He started; something didn't look anatomically correct. _Why do I keep bumping into boys who are actually girls?_

The girl in front of him stopped breathing.

"Hey don't die," Gilbert said, jamming the bandages into the bayonet wound.

The girl coughed and then took a deep breath. "Ow . . ." she said, touching her wound and sitting up.

Memories of how Hungary had looked all those years ago when he'd found her wounded flooded his mind as he stared at the girl's curves that were lit by the sunset's golden light. "Don't move," Gilbert said, grabbing her shoulders to keep her from moving and aggravating the wound or exposing more than she should.

"Villain!" Gilbert heard Alfred say. He turned to look at Alfred and was immediately punched in the face by the other nation.

"First you stab my sister with a bayonet, then you try to ravish her? !" Alfred yelled, punching Gilbert a few more times.

"Wait? Your sister? ! Ouch! Alfred, stop it," Gilbert shouted as he tried to block the punches, which proved nearly impossible since Alfred was even stronger when angry. In addition, he had managed to pin Gilbert on the ground, giving the younger nation an advantage over him.

The girl grabbed Alfred's arm before he could punch again. "Stop Alfred. I am all right," she said, but her brother ignored her and got a couple more punches in. The girl moved in front of Gilbert and caught Alfred's fist.

"Stop!" she commanded.

He stopped straightaway, and Gilbert wondered if it was because she was just as strong as Alfred or for some other reason.

When they returned to their lodgings, Gilbert ordered Alfred to keep watch against any British troops for the rest of the night. "Why do I have to stand guard?" Alfred complained. He sneezed. Although he'd changed into dry clothes, it was still a little chilly out. "It's Amelia's fault for dressing up like a British soldier and wandering around outside when I told her not to."

"Control your temper next time. Losing it will not help you on the battlefield," Gilbert said, glaring at the younger nation. "In fact, any emotion can hinder your ability to fight. Get them under control."

"You're just holding a grudge." Alfred blew into his hands to try to warm them up from the cold nighttime temperatures of March+.

Gilbert touched his cut lip and glared again through his black eye. "Maybe," he said as he went inside the house. The girl Alfred called "Amelia" had set a dinner for him and herself. After a doctor had wrapped her wound, she had changed into woman's clothing and looked more feminine as a result.

"Put this on that eye," she said, handing him a raw steak.

Gilbert did as she ordered. "Are you sure it's all right for me to use this? Meat is not cheap, especially since war is expensive."

"That is Alfred's dinner," she said.

Gilbert smirked. "Are you going to cook it up for him later?"

Amelia shrugged. "Either that or he can have the left-over tea and dried-up scones I found in a cupboard earlier."

Gilbert laughed loudly at this statement. "Pouring salt on the wound. Very nice! I like you Miss America."

She smiled and sat down to their meal. "Call me Amelia."

"Okay Amelia," Gilbert replied. "Would you like to tell me now why you chopped off your hair and dressed as a British soldier?"

Almost involuntarily, she touched her hair, which had been trimmed as short as Alfred's, in response to his question. "Your meal is going to get cold," she said, moving her hand away from her hair and taking a drink from her glass.

"Fine, I'll just tell your brother my theory that you were seeing your British lover," he stated, standing up.

"I went to see our brother Arthur," Amelia said, jumping up and grabbing his sleeve. "Please do not tell Alfred. He does not want me to have any contact with Arthur, but I had to see him. I had to talk to him."

Gilbert sat back down. "So you—"

"Knocked out a British soldier, stole his uniform, and infiltrated Arthur's encampment?" Amelia finished for him. She nodded.

"How did you avoid getting arrested and taken to the prisoner camp?" Gilbert asked as he started his meal.

"Well, when I sneaked up on Arthur, I hugged him and covered his mouth before he could cry out," she said as she followed Gilbert's lead and started cutting up her meat and eating it. "I told him we were sorry for this war, but we had no choice: it was necessary. I was completely prepared to be taken prisoner, so it surprised me when Arthur turned around and hugged me back. I believe he thought I was Alfred, which is what I wanted and why I cut my hair."

"Well, you two do look similar," Gilbert observed, "and in the darkness caused by that storm earlier, any differences would be hard to pick out."

Amelia smiled at this comment. "We looked almost identical when we were children. Anyway, after Arthur made sure no one would notice us, he led me to the edge of the camp and told me to run," she continued. "He said he would give me 15 minutes before he called for someone to arrest me, so I just ran and ran until I bumped into you two."

"Well, Amelia, you've got a lot of guts," Gilbert had said, "more than some men I've met, but you're going to have to tell your brother about this. He's worried even if he doesn't act like it."

She had set down her utensils and looked at her plate. "I understand," she had said finally. "I will tell him. I cannot think of a viable excuse for cutting my hair all off anyway." She had laughed lightly as she returned to her meal. "By the time Alfred lets me out of the house again, my hair will probably have reached my waist," she had said, touching her amber-colored locks again. "I'll write you a letter, so you can come visit and see me with my beautiful hair. Then you can see what I really look like as a woman."

She had forgotten to write that letter, but she looked exactly how Gilbert had imagined she would have looked like after all this time. He watched her set the table and then excuse herself to start making the meal.

"I'll help you," Gilbert said as he got up. He walked over to where Russia was sitting. "I'm going to do what you asked me to do earlier, Russia. Give me about 20 minutes before you come in to stop my harassing her," he told him. "I can't work my playboy magic in any less time than that." He walked through the kitchen door to find her at a cupboard.

"Thank you for helping," she said as he entered the room. "Would you mind carrying some glasses into the dining room?" She set down a glass she'd already retrieved from the cupboard and stood on her tiptoes to reach the next one.

"Let me help you reach that," Gilbert said as he walked over to where she was. He leaned over her and easily grabbed the nearest glass. "Why did your brother send you here?"

She looked at him. "What are you talking about? I'm an orphan."

"Oh really?" he said, handing her the glass. "That's unfortunate. I guess you must have reminded me of someone I know. So now I'm curious, how do you account for that accent of yours? It's better than most foreigners, but you're not a German."

She glared at him. "I am too. I'm from the south, so maybe my accent isn't as good as yours," she countered, moving out of his way to let him get the other glasses. "Besides, this accent is tainted a little because of my Opa. He was an Englishman who married my Oma after WWII. My Papa had an imperfect accent to say the least, and my Mama was a Czech. She taught me how to speak German."

"That's quite an interesting mixture," Gilbert said, handing her another glass. "I wonder how your parents were able to meet since borders are pretty tight, even within the Eastern Bloc."

Amelia/Malika looked a little pale. "My Mama was attending university in Germany," she said quickly. She turned to the sink. filled up the glass he'd handed her with water, and rapidly drank its contents.

"Makes sense," Gilbert stated. "Just one more question for you then, just so I'm clear because it didn't make sense. If your Opa was English, how come you don't have an English surname?"

She laughed at this question. "Opa's last name was 'Fox', but he changed it to the German variation so that we wouldn't be harassed about it later," Amelia/Malika said easily, smiling slightly.

"I see. That makes perfect sense," he said casually, reaching back into the cupboard. "So did you come up with that explanation or did Al?" He handed her the final glass needed for the group.

"I did," she said. Her eyes widened when she realized her slip-up. The glass slipped out of her hand and shattered on the counter top. She glanced down at the shards of glass and brought her hand to her mouth. "Oops, I'm so clumsy."

"I knew it. You _are_ Amelia," Gilbert said quietly, stepping towards her.

She backed away from him until she was backed up against a corner of the counter top. "Who's 'Amelia'? I don't know who you're talking about," she said, holding up her hands.

"Don't give me that. The only thing that's changed about you is you're a little older and your hair is darker. Besides, I can prove you're her," Gilbert said as he grabbed her blouse and pulled it down so that it exposed the right side of her chest. He glanced at her chest and felt a wave of confusion flow over him. "What happened to the scar you got from my bayonet stabbing you all those years ago?"

"I thought I heard something break," Russia said as he entered the room. He observed the scene for only a moment before a dark aura started pouring out of him.

Gilbert cringed._ Ah Scheiße! He just had to come in __right now_.

"How dare you!" Russia shouted, grabbing Gilbert away from Amelia/Malika and punching him.

"Hold on. Stop," Gilbert cried, putting up his hands to block Russia's pounding fists. "This isn't what it looks like. Scheiße! Stop! There's been a misunderstanding."

"Vanya stop. I'm all right," Amelia/Malika shouted.

Gilbert had a sense of déjà vu. This time, however, his attacker stopped right away because she wrapped her arms around Russia instead of just grabbing his arm. He felt a wave of relief flow over him.

"Vanya, I don't think Herr Beilschmidt meant to do what he did," she said. "He slipped trying to protect me from the glass that fell and grabbed my blouse by accident; you came in just as he was apologizing."

Russia turned to look at her. She smiled.

_She's protecting me? If she wasn't Amelia, why would she do that?_ Gilbert wondered.

"Even though it was a misunderstanding, I'm happy you defended my honor, my Vanya," she said, stroking his cheek. "Thank you, my hero." She hugged him again. Gilbert felt numb as he watched Russia grin widely and happily hug her back. Then he started to feel embarrassed at watching the couple.

After a couple of minutes, she pulled away. "Let me get this fellow fixed up. Go wait patiently in the other room," she said, gently pushing Russia toward the door. "I'm sure Toris will be back soon, and we can get started on dinner."

Russia nodded and left the kitchen.

Gilbert smirked through his cut lip. _Seems to me, __**he's**__ the one who's been caught_, he thought dryly.

Amelia/Malika waited until Russia had left before she let out a sigh. "Why did you have to go that far, Gil?" she whispered in English. "That's the second time I've had to stop someone from beating the living crap out of you."

Gilbert blinked. _She's acknowledging that she's Amelia now?_

She fished a first-aid kit out from under the sink and opened it up. She pulled out a few supplies and started applying medicine to Gilbert's face.

"Do you love Russia, Amelia?" he asked her quietly in English.

"That's really none of your business, Mister," she whispered, lifting his chin and swabbing his cuts. "And please call me Malika while we're here."

"Just answer the question," Gilbert demanded quietly, flinching each time she touched his wounds.

"I don't hate him," she said softly.

"That's not an answer," he countered. "My question has only two answers: yes or no."

"I don't know," Amelia/Malika whispered, "I'm really confused right now."

"I can see that, but I was just as confused a minute ago," he said quietly, reaching up and brushing back her hair on the right side of her face. "You still have your scar here. What happened to the other one on your chest?"

She touched the scar near her hairline. "How did you know I had . . . " she whispered with a stunned expression on her face.

"I spotted it back then when I was helping you guys kick England's ass but figured you didn't want to talk about it," Gilbert whispered.

Amelia/Malika sighed. "Gil, I got rid of the scar on my chest because I . . . didn't want it there . . . it ruined my pictures when I'm in a swimming suit," she said quietly, biting her lip.

Gilbert felt a slight suspicion she wasn't telling the whole truth.

She pointed to the scar on her hairline. "I got this scar when I lost my 'parents'. I could have gotten rid of it when I got rid of the other one, but it felt like if I did that, it would erase them along with the scar."

"Well, I guess we all have weird notions like that," Gilbert said. He recalled that Amelia had told him about her non-nation parents while he was staying with them; he remembered feeling jealous that she had something none of the other nations had ever had, even if she only had them for a little while.

"Are you going to tell Ivan who I am?" she asked quietly, smirking at him. "If so, I guess I'll have to kill you right here and now, or maybe tell Ivan you felt me up and let him do it for me."

Gilbert scoffed. "Bullshit. You don't mean a thing you're saying," he whispered before sighing. "I'm not going to tell. I _**hate**_ Russia. I _**hate**_ being stuck in Moscow doing meaningless jobs. I can't be my awesome self there. Your brother still bugs the hell outta me, but I don't hate him. If I can help you, let me know—but don't make the request something that gets a ton of attention. Russia's sibs are always watching me."

Amelia/Malika put a bandage on the corner of his mouth. "Can I let you know if I need your help after I talk to Al? He's going to call me soon, and he's the one who calls all the shots."

Gilbert smirked. "Letting him be in charge was a mistake, idiot."

Amelia/Malika smacked him, which caused him to flinch because she accidentally hit one of his bruises. "He's not as incompetent as you guys seem to think he is," she said in a hushed voice. "Now before I forget, I've been meaning to ask you for a while: Why did Ivan bring you to Germany? I thought he handled all the business here."

"He wanted to rescue you from a Big Bad German Wolf," Gilbert replied wryly, "and lucky awesome me got the role. My turn to ask a question: what does it feel like to have Russia wrapped around your little finger?" He held up his pinky finger to demonstrate.

Amelia turned and cleaned up the broken glass from earlier. "What? That's crazy talk. He doesn't like me _**that**_ much." She put away the first aid supplies and put the kit back under the sink.

Gilbert let out a huge sigh. "You really are Alfred's sister . . ." he said, shaking his head.

"I-I-I brought the food," Toris said in German, poking his head into the kitchen. "Herr Braginski says that Herr Beilschmidt isn't allowed to help—" He stared at Gilbert's face. "What on earth happened to you?"

"I'll tell you later," Gilbert replied in German as he grabbed another glass. "Right now I need to take these glasses out there before he comes back in here to 'help me' do it."

After dinner, Russia demanded that the two nations clean up. Toris practically choked Gilbert as he quickly grabbed him around the neck and dragged him into the kitchen. After putting away the food, he asked Gilbert to go collect the plates, so they could wash them.

_This is so not awesome. I'm not his servant, _he thought as he walked into the dining area.

"Malika, I think your Russian has come a long way," Gilbert overheard Russia say to Amelia/Malika in German, "but how would you like to get a little immersion experience?"

Gilbert glanced over to where they were sitting in the front room.

"What are you suggesting?" she asked in German.

"I think you know how I feel about you," Russia said. "I hope I'm not being too presumptuous about how you feel for me. Come live in Moscow with me."

Gilbert almost dropped a plate. He knew that request was coming, but he hadn't expected Russia to "pop the question" so soon. He looked over at Amelia/Malika.

She looked stunned.

"Sorry that came out wrong," Russia said, looking flustered when she didn't reply right away. "We don't have to live together at first. In fact, my plan from the start had been to get you a house close by my home. That way, we can see each other more often instead of just once a week. Of course, you can still decide how fast things go, just like you said earlier."

Gilbert found himself gathering the plates as quietly and slowly as he could.

Amelia/Malika looked down at her hands as if she was trying to think of what to say.

"Was that too fast again?" Russia asked. "Sorry. Forget I said anything."

"No, no!" Amelia/Malika said finally. "When you defended me earlier, it confirmed how much you care for me. Only my Papa has cared that much. But . . . can I think about it? It's not that I don't care for you; I just need some time to think about it."

"Of course you need some time," Russia said. "Moving to Moscow is a big step. How about next week, or is that not enough time?"

Gilbert gathered up the rest of the plates quickly and headed for the kitchen before Russia noticed him eavesdropping. "That's plenty," he heard Amelia/Malika say as he went through the door.

* * *

"You played your role a little too well," Russia told Gilbert in German the next morning over breakfast at the Berlin house. "I'm still very upset at you."

"Why? Because I got to see something before you did?" he replied in German with a smirk.

"Kol-kol-kol-kol," Russia growled as he brandished his faucet-pipe and loomed toward him.

_Ah, Scheiße, me and my big mouth_. "I'm sorry! It was a joke. A joke!" he said, backing up.

There was a knock at the door, and Toris answered it. "Fräulein Fuchs, what brings you here so early?"

Much to Gilbert's relief, Russia hid the faucet-pipe behind a chair and headed for the front room. Curious what would bring her to there so early, he followed him at a safe distance.

"Oh thank goodness you're still here Vanya!" she cried. Her face and eyes were red as if she'd been crying. "I need more time to decide whether to come to Moscow or not."

"What? Why?" Russia asked.

"My aunt on my father's side lives in West Berlin," she stated. "She bumped into me when she'd visited my parents' grave on the fifth anniversary of their death several months ago. We've been writing and calling each other once a week since then."

"This is the first time you mentioned her," Russia pointed out.

Amelia/Malika shook her head. "That's only because family never came up in conversation again," she said. "Besides, what good would it do to mention someone I can hardly ever see unless she comes here or whom I can't visit unless she's dy—" She choked back the words and wiped her eyes with a handkerchief.

Russia reached out and caressed her shoulders in an effort to comfort her. He slowly pulled her into a hug as she continued to sob.

_Damn she's good,_ Gilbert mused. _Where did she learn to act like that and make it sound believable? _

After a few minutes, Amelia/Malika pulled away from Russia. "I'm sorry Vanya. I can't concentrate on moving or anything like that while this is on my mind."

"If you were with me, I could easily get you past the borders," he told her.

Amelia/Malika shook her head. "You are so sweet to offer that, but the hospital is only allowing family to visit now," she said. "Unless you were my husband, I don't think her children would feel comfortable having you around."

"Of course, I didn't think about how awkward that would make things," Russia stated.

She sighed a tired breath. "Moving to Moscow could take weeks, and they don't know how much time she has left," she said. "I've put in a permit to see a terminally-ill relative but those take several weeks to process. As it is, she could be gone in a week. She's the only family I've ever known besides my parents and grandparents." She started to sob again.

Russia turned to Gilbert. "Can you go with her and get that pass for her right away?" he asked him.

Gilbert shrugged. "I suppose so."

She glanced at him, confusion written all over her face. "How can Herr Beilschmidt help?"

"I never told you, but I'm a government official in Moscow," Russia said. "Herr Beilschmidt is an official here."

"Can you really help me with this?" Amelia/Malika asked, drying her tears again.

Russia nodded. "Can you go with him right now? Toris and I were going to leave early this afternoon after I finish up with some work here," he said. "I'd go with you myself, Malika dear, but it would be a hassle to rearrange our plane tickets right now. I'll do my best to trust him with you."

Gilbert suppressed a smirk. The real reason Russia was leaving Berlin was because his little sister Belarus had threatened to come drag him back if he stayed any longer than he already had. As if to emphasize the work he had to do, Russia sat down at the desk in the front room and started going through some paperwork.

"Shall we go, Fräulein Fuchs?" Gilbert said.

Amelia/Malika nodded, but instead of walking to the door, she rushed over to where Russia was sitting and threw her arms around his neck. "Thank you so much for everything you've done for me, my darling Vanya."

Russia looked surprised at the embrace but then smiled and reached up to touch her shoulders in an effort to hug her back from where he was sitting. Before he could, though, she pecked him on the cheek. The large nation turned a deep pink color.

"I might not be back for a couple of weeks, maybe more," she said. "So that will have to keep you company until I come back."

_Laying it on a little thick, aren't you, Amelia? _Gilbert silently scolded her.

She released Russia and headed for the door. "Thank you as well Herr Beilschmidt," she said as she walked out the door.

"Be sure to check in with me as soon as you are finished," Russia told Gilbert as he headed out the door. "It shouldn't take you all day to get that taken care of, and you'll be able to easily report to me before we leave. Also, Natalia said she'd be more than happy to come get you if you need some help returning to Moscow later."

"Thanks, but I think I can make it on my own just fine," he replied.

He and Amelia/Malika walked towards the government building in silence for several minutes.

"When did you get so good at lying with a straight face?" Gilbert asked.

She let out a small laugh. "When you live most of your life surrounded by only non-nation humans, it's easy to get used to dreaming up stories and making them sound believable," she stated, looking a little sad. "I think it goes without saying that I can't tell them the whole truth, even if they are trust-worthy friends. The only problem I face is remembering everything I tell them, so I either make it up beforehand or I write it down after I've said it. Fortunately and unfortunately, I only have those non-nation friends and associates around me for about 20 years before I have to break ties with them. They get suspicious about my youthful appearance if I stay around them longer than that."

Gilbert noticed she got an even sadder expression on her face and saw that she was watching a family walking down the pavement nearby them.

"I try my best to be myself around others, but I don't have the luxury of being completely myself like you nations do when you're around each other," she continued. "Except for you, Toris, and my brothers, no one even knows I exist . . . as a nation, that is."

"Now I can see why you're confused about Russia," he stated.

She looked at him as if she didn't understand what he was implying.

"A nation is showering you with kindness, generosity, and affection," he continued. "Who wouldn't be confused about the feelings those gestures would generate for that nation?"

"I guess that makes sense," she said. "But despite what you saw in there, Ivan isn't the one I love. The only one for me is—" She blushed and looked away from Gilbert.

He grinned and decided not to push her to say what she almost had confessed. "Speaking of your family," he said in an attempt to change the subject. "I assume you applied for that pass because _he_ wants you back in the States now that Russia wants you out of Berlin."

"Well, the exit strategy is easier from here than in Moscow," she said, "and when I told him about it last night, Al really didn't seem to like that Russia invited me there . . . for some reason." She seemed to ponder this for a moment.

"And here I was looking forward to Alfred being in-laws with Russia," Gilbert said, laughing.

"Idiot. You know Ivan would never marry me," she said, laughing in return, "even if Al allowed it."

"What Russia wants to do with you is close enough," he countered.

"Watch your mouth, buddy," she said, "and get your mind out of the gutter." She smacked him on the arm.

"Can't take it out of there if I'm only speaking the truth," he replied, laughing more and rubbing his stinging arm.

"Leaving Moscow would be impossible once you got there, anyway, and Alfred knows it," Gilbert continued. "If you tried to leave, you'd be followed by either Russia or Belarus."

"Belarus? Who's he?"

"She. Belarus is the one nation that makes any other nation, with maybe the exception of Toris and Ukraine, want to crap themselves when they cross her," he said. "She's the scariest person I've ever met, and I've been around a long time. She'd probably kill you if she knew about you and Russia, now that I think about it."

Amelia/Malika went a little pale at this. "Why? I've never done anything to her."

"She's got a really bad brother-complex," he said. "Sometimes I wonder how far she wants to take it."

"I'm so glad I don't have that problem."

"Your brother does."

"Huh?"

Gilbert shrugged. "Don't get me wrong. It's not like he's in love with any of you or anything, but I've noticed that he's very possessive over all his siblings, including your ex-brother, England."

"That's probably because even when he's with all of you, Al feels alone," she stated.

Gilbert coughed uncomfortably at this statement because as much as he wanted to counter it, he'd seen the cold shoulder and brush off treatment some of the other nations had given America many times (even though, occasionally, he deserved that treatment). "Well, at the World Conference, I think he irritates England just so he'll pay attention only to him," he replied.

Amelia/Malika got quiet and looked at the pavement as they walked along. "That sounds like something Al would do. You're so lucky you get to see that."

"I only get to go as a representative," Gilbert countered. "Russia's the real power. I've got no real say there."

"At least you get to go somewhere," Amelia/Malika stated. "This whole spy thing is the first time I've been outside of the States since WWII."

Gilbert blinked. "Wait, so you—"

"Wanted to do this? Sure. It sounded exciting, I got to meet one of my favorite actors, Ronald Reagan—as my boss, of course—and I got to leave the country," she said, smiling before getting a sober expression on her face. "I just never—"

"Expected it to go as far as it did," Gilbert finished for her.

She laughed. "This is why I like you, Gil. You and I understand each other."

He returned the laugh. "Sometimes I wonder if it's only Russia you've got wrapped around your little finger," he said quietly.

"Huh? What did you just say?" she asked him.

He opened up the door to Berlin's government building for her. "Nothing. Let's get you that pass," he said, letting her walk in ahead of him.

Once inside, they easily got past the less-important officials and were escorted to the head of the department. "Herr Beilschmidt, what a pleasant surprise," the official said, shaking hands with him. "What can we do for you?"

"My friend here needs you to speed up her 'terminally-ill relative' pass to West Berlin," he stated.

The official cringed and shook his head. "Herr Beilschmidt, even with your approval, it will take at least a week to get that pass to her," the official said. He rubbed his hands together nervously.

Gilbert looked at Amelia/Malika. "What if I go with her? Will that speed up things a bit?" he suggested, smirking and then winking at the official.

The official's eyes grew wide. "I-I-I suppose so, yes," he said, looking between Gilbert and Amelia/Malika. "My apologies, Herr Beilschmidt, I had no idea it was _**that**_ kind of a 'situation'. What is your name Fräulein?" After she told him, the official pulled out a pass and wrote, "So long as Fräulein Malika Fuchs crosses the border with Herr Gilbert Beilschmidt, permit passage. Herr Beilschmidt will report the date they will return at a later time."

Gilbert took the pass from the official and handed it to Amelia/Malika. "Awesome. Thank you for understanding," he said.

The official grinned. "I have been in similar situations," he stated, giving Amelia/Malika a once-over. "You have great taste as usual, Herr Beilschmidt." They shook hands again, and the two nations left the official's office.

"What kind of 'situation' was he talking about?" she asked as they exited the building.

"Hmm. I wonder that too," Gilbert said with a smile.

Amelia/Malika smacked him on the arm. "Did you just imply what I think you did?"

"What would that be?" he asked.

She blushed and looked at the pavement in front of them. "I'm too embarrassed to say it out loud," she replied.

"Fräulein Fuchs, I'm surprised at you," he said, making a mock shocked expression. "I didn't know you had such a dirty mind."

Amelia/Malika looked up. "If not that, then what did you imply?"

Gilbert just smiled and laughed. "If you're not going to say it, then neither am I," he said. "Go call your 'aunt' and tell her she can expect us tomorrow. Now go home and pack. I'll come by tomorrow morning around 10."

Amelia/Malika nodded and then waved goodbye as she headed back to her apartment.

* * *

"You have to go with her?" Russia repeated after Gilbert reported what had happened; he didn't look happy at that prospect.

"If I don't, it'll take a week for the paperwork to go through," Gilbert replied. "Her aunt is dying, Russia. I'm not sure your 'government official' status will work as awesomely as mine does here. Besides, I'm sure she'll give you all the credit for helping her get to see her so quickly. She'll be _**eternally**_ grateful to you."

Russia sighed. "Very well, go, but I don't want you to stay there with her. You will come back to Moscow as soon as you drop her off at her aunt's home, da?"

Gilbert raised an eyebrow. "Wait a minute. You trust _**her**_ going West, a woman you've known—what—six months, but you don't trust me, someone you've know a lot longer? It's not like I'm not going to defect."

Russia smiled. "Of course you're not going to do that, Prussia. You know very well that if you ran away, I'd just go fetch you," he said. "No, that's not the reason. It's because I don't trust _**you**_ alone with _**her**_. You've already proven that you can't keep your hands off her if I leave you alone with her; even if she said it was an accident, I'm not 100% sure that's the truth. Like you said, I've known _**you**_ a long time. And yes, I trust her, I lo—" Russia looked down at his paperwork. He straightened the papers and shoved them into his briefcase before shutting and locking it. "I know her well enough to trust her," he said finally.

Gilbert stared dumbfounded. _What the hell? He __**loves**_ _her? ! Scheiße. When this all hits the fan, I'll bet we all get the brunt of it. I hope this is all worth it. I'll have to get a promise from America that he gets the Wall crumbled soon. I don't know how much more abuse I can take._

"Besides, if Malika has any second thoughts about coming back, which I don't think is likely," Russia said finally. "Then your government _**should**_ take care of it. If not, I'll help them by bringing her back myself." Russia stood up from his desk. "I know she'll love Moscow."

Gilbert smirked. "Well then. I guess I'd better finish up this job as quickly as possible for you."

Russia smiled and nodded.

_Like hell I'm going to let you drag my friend back to that frozen wasteland with you_, Gilbert thought. _I need to make sure those siblings understand they need to get the out hell of Berlin as soon as possible_.

* * *

**A/N**

***I decided to continue the title from the previous chapter (from Sir Walter Scott's poem, _Marmion -_Canto vi. Stanza 17-). It seems that Ivan is now trying to spin a web of his own (and Gilbert/Prussia throws his own web in the mix). =_= makes you wonder if they'll ever get all the threads off . . .**

**+Prussian general Baron von Steuben arrived in Valley Forge in February and started training the troops in March, so you can imagine how cold Alfred was and how quickly that trio of nations would want to get out of that rain (I imagine it was the main reason that Prussia was cross about losing to America...he was cold **_**and**_ **lost a few times to a younger nation).**

**BTW many women cut their hair, bound their chests, and padded their curves to make themselves look like men so that they could fool the army recruiters and fight alongside the men during the Revolutionary War. The battlefield was their homes, city streets, backyards and nearby fields and forests, so it would make sense that the women would want to fight for their homes just as much as the men. So what Amelia did wasn't uncommon (except her motivation wasn't the same as other women). Because they wore caps and wigs during this era, hiding their short hair after the fact wasn't too difficult.**

**§Later on in the Cold War, East Germany started loosening up their restrictions on letting their citizens visit West Berlin and West Germany. While West Germans could more easily travel to the GDR (in the 1980s, visitors from the western part of Berlin who wanted to visit the eastern part had to exchange at least DM 25 into East German currency at the poor exchange rate of 1:1), East Germans had stricter protocols they had to go through. Passes, such as the emergency terminally-ill relative pass were issued, along with allowances for mail and telephone calls. If GDR's goal was to lessen their citizens desire to be part of the Western world, I'm not sure it worked very well. LOL -_-; Berlin citizens and some other citizens living near the border were able to easily pick up TV broadcasts from the West, which only served to counter all the propaganda the Eastern Bloc was trying to feed them and increased their desire to reunite with West Germany. Trade from West Germany also proved to show how much better it was in the west (this trade dropped off around 1985, which may be one reason the Wall fell).**

**I'm grateful for all of the wonderful things some of you have said about this subplot. I found it fascinating how it's developed; I had originally meant for it to be a couple of chapters or a sequel/side story that I was going to write later, but it's helped to explain how Ivan knew Amelia and why she hasn't tried to visit or talk to Arthur since 1944 {as you will see in the next chapter}, so I'm very grateful that I followed a friend's advice to blend it with the main plot line. Thank you for sticking with me in this subplot this long. **

**Translations:**

**Scheiße = Shit (this word appears to be Gil's favorite word;) I didn't realize how much until I gave him the POV)**

**At this point, Amelia has figured out that Vanya was a way to make Ivan's name more endearing and show a closeness to him. That's why she's very deliberate about how she uses the diminutive vs. his regular name. When she talks in German to Gilbert/Prussia or in English, however, she just uses Ivan because there is no special way to say someone's name in either language (not that I remember from my German classes anyway; feel free to correct me if I'm wrong).**

**I hope this healthy dose of Prussia/Gilbert made your day (I'm sorry if he ever got OOC at all during this chapter; he's not as easy for me to write as, say, England, America, or France are). I hope you enjoy the last part of this subplot in the next chapter {what are you waiting for? It's available right now!}. Ivan might make some more appearances in the future, but for now I'm going to back to the present day and returning the focus back on the main storyline with Arthur, Amelia, Alfred and the rest. ^_^**

**Ivan: *appears & hugs me* "I think you should just write the rest of this story as a Russia X Nyotalia!US story.**

**Me: *tries to wiggle free and fails* "Darn it Ivan! Let me go! I want my UK X Nyotalia!US fic!"**

**Ivan: "нет. Sorry. Let me hold you just a little bit longer, da?" *squeezes me tighter* "Besides, Russians like long stories."**

**Me: *wrestles internally with whether I like or hate the hug as my face starts to get red & hot* "OMG Ivan! Why are you so hot? !" *again, unsure whether I mean in temperature or sexiness, or both***

**Ivan: "Don't you faint on me again. I want to enjoy this while you're conscious." **

**Me: "Wait. What did you do when I fainted _last time_?"**

**Ivan: "Umm . . . I plead the fifth." **

**Me: "You can't do that! You're not a US citizen!"**

**Ivan: *kisses me on the cheek***

**Me: "! ! !" *is unable to articulate anything for several minutes***

**((seriously, folks, this reaction happens every time I get hugged by any guy cosplaying as Russia at cons; I can't explain it)).**


	14. Untangling the Web:Do Svidaniya, Darling

**A/N A line break is a switch between Amelia's and Ivan's POVs (even though it should be obvious). I hope that keeps the switching back and forth from being confusing. Unlike my past chapters, the flow of the chapter just worked better switching back and forth between Ivan and Amelia.**

* * *

**Ch. 14: Untangling the Web: Do Svidaniya,* Darling**

"Al, what the hell is this? !" Amelia demanded, storming out of the bathroom and pointing at her hair. "I thought you said you got the best do-it-yourself hair dye in West Berlin."

"I thought that _**was**_ what I got," Alfred said, raising his hands in defense.

"Well, you thought wrong," she retorted. She glared at her brother and wasn't sure if she wanted to scream or cry.

Only two hours earlier, after being dropped off by Gilbert, Amelia had met her "aunt". "It's nice to finally meet you after only reading letters from you all this time, Fräulein Brown. My name is Maria 'Gensch'," she had said in German.

Amelia had shaken hands with the woman who was playing her aunt. "I'm also pleased to meet you," she had replied in German. "Since you are my 'aunt', please feel free to just call me Amy."

"Your 'cousin', Alexander Gensch, has told me the same thing," Maria had said, nodding towards Alfred, who had been sitting in a chair listening to the radio, "so I'll oblige you both this one time since your stay here will be very short. You may call me Tante Maria."

Alfred had looked up and grinned. "Yo Amy, long time, no see," he had said in English.

Maria had looked from Alfred to Amelia. "I see you two are already acquainted. Well then, if you'll excuse me, I need to contact your handler and make sure everything is all right on her end," Tante Maria said in English as she left.

_So even little old ladies can be spies_, Amelia thought. _Non-nation humans sure are amazing_. She turned her attention to Alfred and gave him a look. "Alexander?"

"It was the closest I could come up with so that you would be okay if you accidentally slipped and called me Al," he said quietly.

"And 'Gensch'?" Amelia whispered back. "That's just the German version of Jones. Then you give me 'Amy Brown'? Why not just call ourselves 'Alfred and Amelia Jones' and save yourself some time thinking up names that are almost identical to our actual names. Seriously, Al, if you're going to keep up this spying thing, you're going to have to come up with better pseudonyms."

"Boy Sis, you sure are cranky. Give me a break, will ya?" Alfred said, pouting slightly. "If you don't like what I come up with, make up your own name next time."

Amelia sighed and shook her head. "You're right . . . sorry, I guess I'm a little stressed out right now," she replied, "but since you're giving me permission, I think I will come up with my pseudonyms from now on."

Alfred shrugged in response.

Tante Maria came back into the room. "I almost forgot: Are you planning on looking like you do when you leave, dear?"

"Yes. Is there something wrong with doing that?" Amelia asked.

"Ja. If you don't look like the photo in your passport, authorities will confiscate it," Tante Maria said. "It doesn't matter how high up in the government you are, there are no exceptions. I assume neither of you want to have to explain why you look different nor what you were doing here, even if it was for the betterment of the free world."

Amelia sighed and looked at Alfred.

"Hey how was I supposed to know they'd confiscate it if you didn't look like the photo in the passport?" he said.

Amelia pinched the bridge of her nose and rubbed her eyes. "Al, you really need to start doing more homework for these things."

Alfred had been sent to the local store to get Amelia some blond hair dye in order to get her hair color as close to her original as possible. She had wasted no time in making use of Tante Maria's bathroom to apply it when he had returned. After waiting the recommended time, Amelia had washed out the dye and examined the results of her work. The image in the mirror had both shocked and angered her.

"Sis, I swear the guy at the store said it was the same type his Missus used all the time," Alfred said. "He promised that it would do the job."

Tante Maria came out of the kitchen to see what the commotion was. "Oh my," she said, bringing her hands to her mouth in shock.

Alfred studied Amelia's new color. "What's wrong with it anyway?"

"What's wrong with it? It's bright orange! That's what's wrong with it!" Amelia hollered. "And the dye didn't even cover the entire length. My head looks like a piece of candy corn!"

Alfred bit his lip to keep from laughing because he could now see what she was talking about. Her hair had colored blond at the roots, a yellow-orange in the middle, and a mahogany red at the ends. "Pfft. Wah ha ha ha!" He was never good at suppressing laughter. "Guess that's what happens when you try to dye dark brown hair to blond," he said between laughs.

Amelia snatched up a pair of scissors with a murderous look in her eyes, and Alfred jumped at the action. She felt a tickle of pleasure at his reaction.

"Snip, Snip, Snip, Snip!" In four quick chops, she cut her waist-length hair to just below her shoulders. It felt good to take out her frustration on something.

"Amy, what have you done?" Tante Maria asked.

Amelia sighed. "I was just upset and needed to vent. I'll go to a salon and have the rest chopped off to the blond part. I'm afraid to use any more dye on my hair. I've heard if you use too much, all your hair will fall out."

"Cutting your hair as short as Alexander's won't be necessary, dear," Tante Maria said. "It will take about a week to get ones that look authentic, but my nephew, Lukas, can you make new passports and paperwork with this new hair color. I'll need you to buy me some film; I just ran out the other day." She walked over and touched Amelia's hair.

"Does it really look hideous?" Amelia asked, starting to tear up.

Tante Maria shook her head. "The hairstyle you created out of frustration will actually work for what I have in mind. All the young girls around here are going 'punk rock' style."

Another wave of laughs leaked out of Alfred.

Amelia pointed at him with the scissors, and he jumped again. "Listen up Al," she said. "Since this is your fault, you are going to take me to the best salon in Washington DC or Hollywood, I don't care which, and you are going to pay to have my hair fixed. Now give me 300 West German Marks."

Alfred handed over the money.

Amelia grabbed her purse and walked over to the door.

"Wait. Where are you going?" he asked.

She turned to glare at him. "I'm going to buy some film for Tante Maria and some new clothes and accessories to match my new look . . . and maybe a hat to cover my hair."

Alfred held out his hand to stop her. "But . . . Gil said you should stay inside just in case."

Amelia smirked. "Try and stop me Bro."

Alfred sighed. "Just be careful okay?"

* * *

Lena walked over to the table Ivan was sitting at. "I thought that Malika was away visiting her aunt," she said to him, "so you wouldn't be meeting for the next couple of weeks."

Ivan shrugged. "I still have business in some nearby countries. I came here out of habit, I suppose."

"Well it's a good thing you did," she replied. "Malika sent me a letter for you. I'll go get it." Lena hurried through some doors at the back of the restaurant.

Karl poured him a glass of vodka. "This brings back memories. We met while you were drinking alone here."

Ivan smiled and reached for his wallet.

Karl shook his head. "I can't take money for a drink that I gave to a friend. It just doesn't feel right," he said, "Who cares if my Frau gives me a hard time for it." He grinned and walked back over to the bar to serve some customers who had just arrived.

Lena returned, slid the letter across the table, and took his order for some dinner.

Ivan took a sip of the vodka, tore open the letter, and started reading Malika's ever-neat and childlike handwriting.

"Ivan, In the last week since I left so much has changed," her letter began. "I arrived intending to say goodbye to my aunt only to find that she wasn't sick after all. It was a just ruse to get me here. She wanted to try to help her only living relative who lived in the Eastern Bloc get the freedom she felt I deserved. As soon as I found this out, I insisted on returning immediately to Berlin, but she had already hidden my paperwork. I worried about getting arrested trying to cross the border with no way to contact you for help. So I decided to stay while I looked for my paperwork."

"While I was doing this, I met her neighbor, a young man named Barrett Kirchner who brought my aunt groceries every day," the letter continued. "We got into conversations and through them fell in love with each other. I'm sorry, Ivan, I do care for you, but what I feel for Barrett is more than what we had. He has asked me to marry him, and that was an offer I felt you believed you could never give me. Call it a woman's intuition. I hope you can forgive me someday and be happy that I'm somewhere where I can express my artistic creativity in freedom. Please forgive me. Ivan, I will always fondly remember the times we shared together. Your friend, Malika."

Ivan's hand felt cold and wet. He looked down to find the vodka glass crushed to tiny pieces in his glove. He marveled at the little diamonds that sparkled in his palm, and a dark feeling bubbled up inside him.

He crushed the letter in his other hand and stood up. "I could have given you freedom . . . so long as you were with me, as long as you were always by my side, you would have had all the freedom you wanted," he told the letter in Russian as he shook the broken glass onto the table.

"Ivan, what's wrong?" Karl asked him in German. He'd come over when he'd seen Ivan stand up. Karl glanced down at the pieces of the vodka glass, and his face went pale. "What . . . " he started to say.

Ivan put on his best smile. "I'm sorry," he said in German, pulling out some Marks and putting them on the table. "I've had some upsetting news in this letter, and I guess I didn't know my own strength. I need to go now; I have some business to deal with."

Karl nodded but didn't say anything. Ivan saw a look on Karl's face that he had never given him before, but it was one Ivan recognized: fear. He'd seen it so many times; it was like an old friend. Ivan turned and walked out of the restaurant knowing it was the last time he'd ever feel welcome there. Even if Karl tried to make him feel at home, he wouldn't be able to completely hide that new emotion he now felt for the large nation.

Lithuania jumped as he slammed the door to his Berlin house. "Wh-wh-what's wrong?' he asked in Russian.

Ivan smiled. "We're going to West Berlin," he replied in Russian as he packed up his things.

"What? Why?" Lithuania said. "I-I-I mean, do we have business there?"

Ivan nodded. "Da. A fox has escaped my cage, and I want her back," he growled.

Lithuania shivered. "What if she doesn't want to come back?" he asked quietly.

Ivan stopped packing. "Then I'll drag her—wait—why would she not want . . ." He couldn't finish the question. She had told him her honest feelings in the letter. _If those words are true . . ._ Though the anger from rejection still tinged the emotions swirling through him, the affection he still felt for her softened them slightly.

"We didn't get to say goodbye properly," he said finally. "If the path she's chosen is truly what she wants, then I'll let her go and hope she's happy. But I hope . . . we can still be friends, da? . . . that she won't forget me . . . I'll tell her she can visit Moscow anytime and leave anytime she wants, no strings attached."

Lithuania got a look on his face Ivan hadn't seen for many years. "I see. Let me finish packing for you then. If you want, I can also arrange our travel."

"No let me do that," Ivan said sighing. "You'll probably screw it up."

Lithuania smiled at this jab and continued to pack their bags; he wisely didn't point out that it was only an excuse Ivan made up to hide his hurt feelings.

* * *

"This rain is really coming down," Tante Maria said as she picked up her purse, "but I don't have a choice."

Lukas Müller, her nephew, looked up from the pile of cards in front of him and Amelia. "Tantchen, where are you going?"

"I have to go shopping," Tante Maria said. "With four people to feed, I don't have enough fresh food even if it's just for one more day."

Amelia laid down a card. "Your turn."

"Plus this one," Tante Maria said, pointing at Alfred, "eats like he's starving to death."

Alfred looked up from his comic book and laughed self-consciously.

"You shouldn't have to go out in this; I could go get you some groceries," Lukas offered as he put down a card without glancing at it.

Amelia slapped her hand down on the pile. "Hah! I win again!" she said, scooping the pile off to the side where the other cards were neatly stacked and stacking them with the others.

Lukas glanced back and sighed. "I really don't get this 'Slap Jack' game," he said, scratching his head. "Are you sure we can't play a German card game?"

Amelia shook her head. "We've been playing nothing but German games since it started raining," she said. "You're the one who wanted to play an American game, so don't complain. Besides, this game is easy. Just pay attention and be faster than me at slapping that Jack." She set her cards down. "Tante Maria, why don't we restock your kitchen since Al here has eaten almost everything in the place?"

Tante Maria smiled. "That would be nice. Let me write you out a list," she said as she went into the kitchen.

Amelia grabbed her cards and put down the next card and waited for Lukas to follow.

"I haven't eaten _everything_," Alfred stated, lowering his comic book and pouting.

Amelia looked over at him and set down her next card. "Yes, you have," she stated. "I helped her cook last night, and there wasn't much to work with. Come on, Al, it's the least we can do since you made it so we had to stay here for a whole week."

Alfred returned to his comic, turned a page, and shrugged. "Whatever," he said, not looking up from the pages. "I was going to go buy some snacks for the trip anyway."

Lukas put down another card. Amelia set down a Jack. They both slapped down at it, but Lukas was fastest this time.

"See? You're getting it!" Amelia said, grinning at him.

Lukas smiled and blushed. "Well, like you said, it's a simple game that's easy to learn."

"Here's my list," Tante Maria said as she entered the front room, waving a paper in the air. Lukas, Alfred, and Amelia all stood up.

Alfred grabbed an umbrella and gave Amelia a confused look. "Why are you getting up to leave? I thought we decided it would be safest if you stayed indoors."

"Fine," Amelia said, sitting back down and sulking as Alfred and Lukas left. She picked up Alfred's comic book and started reading it.

After five minutes, Tante Maria came back into the room. "Amy dear, could you go catch those two? I forgot a few items that are necessary for the meal I'm making tonight."

Amelia looked up. "But—"

"I know, I know, it would be better if you stayed inside, but if you're careful and quick, then you should be fine," Tante Maria said, holding out another slip of paper.

"Okay. I'll be right back," Amelia stated, tossing down the comic book. "I was going stir-crazy anyway." She grabbed an umbrella out of the coat closet.

"Use my coat dear," Tante Maria said, pointing at it when she saw Amelia hesitate at the closet.

"Thanks," Amelia said, slipping on the bright red raincoat. "I left most of my clothes, including my raincoat, in East Berlin because taking more than one suitcase would have looked suspicious. So where do you think they went?"

"Well, Lukas knows that there's a grocery about two blocks east of here," Tante Maria stated. "I'll bet that's the one they went to. If you don't catch them there, just come straight back and I'll send them out again when they get back. We can't have you wandering all over the city."

Amelia walked into the bathroom and started putting together the look they had worked out. "I know this is part of the look," she said as she smudged a charcoal and then a bright blue eyeshadow over her lids and then lined her eyes with black, "but I'll be glad when I don't need to wear such heavy makeup."

"Well, your hair won't make sense without it," Tante Maria said.

"I know, I know. Be back soon!" Amelia called as she headed out the door.

* * *

When they arrived at Berlin, Ivan had decided that they would start by checking the neighborhood around the address that Prussia had given them.

"We were actually given a train station address," Prussia had said. "I think that was all part of this Tante's plan, so that I couldn't find her actual address. The family member who met us there to pick up Malika didn't invite me back to her place. Said something about being busy with funeral arrangements and whatnot. Naturally, I didn't think anything was wrong with leaving her with him."

Prussia had shrugged and picked at his fingernails. "Hopefully, they're in the neighborhood of that station," he had stated. "I really couldn't tell if the relative had walked there or not."

Unfortunately, as soon as Ivan and Lithuania had started their search, a downpour had started. Luckily, Lithuania had thought to bring umbrellas with them.

"Russia, I'm going to search down the next street over," Lithuania said, pointing to where he was referring. "Perhaps, after we finish, we could find something to eat? You haven't eaten anything since we left the Berlin house."

Ivan nodded and sighed as he headed down the street adjacent to where Lithuania had said he was going. Because of the rain, not a lot of people were outside. _This may just be a futile search today_, he thought. _Perhaps we should just call it a day and try later when this rain lets up._

A flash of red caught his attention, and Ivan blinked through the rain at a girl in a red raincoat walking down the street ahead of him. She had the same build as Malika. She was using an ordinary black umbrella that blocked most of her head and upper body, so he couldn't see her beautiful, waist-length dark locks, but he was almost sure it was her. Every movement she made was similar to how Malika moved.

A gust of wind swept her umbrella out of her hands and carried it over to him. He almost dropped his own umbrella but managed to catch hers before it blew down the street. Ivan glanced at the handle: no rose.

_. . . but then that umbrella had been stolen, hadn't it? _In his weariness from the pain of loss, Ivan couldn't remember if Malika had repainted the flower on her new umbrella's handle or not. He stared at the handle as if trying to will the red blossoms to grow on it.

"Excuse me . . . that is mine?" the girl said in German as she ran up to him.

Ivan held it out to her and looked up. "Here you are, Malika. Did you know I've been looking all over for y—" he said in German.

The girl took back the umbrella and wiped the rain from her face. Ivan stared at the stranger in front of him. She had some of Malika's facial features, but her damp, shoulder-length hair was blond at the roots and the rest was bright orange and chopped in a very disorderly fashion, a style the Malika he knew would never sport.

The girl focused her brown eyes on him and gave him a crooked smile. Her eyes were shadowed with bright blue and charcoal makeup and heavily lined with black. The rain had caused her mascara to run slightly, which only made her eyes look darker. Except for the red coat, she wore the almost all-black clothes that were popular for the punk or Goth trends of the Western culture and had a ton of Gothic-looking jewelry on.

"Dan-Ke Herr," she said in broken German; her words were drenched with a terrible accent.

"Gern geschehen," Ivan replied in German, confusion rippling over him. _What is that accent? Deep South American? Cockney British?_ _Whatever it is, I bet even English-speaking people would have a hard time understanding what she's saying._

"But what is 'Malika'? Mine . . . uh . . . _umbrella_?" she continued in her broken German, pointing to the umbrella and saying the last word in English. "I'm sorry . . . mine German ist nicht sew Goot."

A dark-haired man ran up to her. "Amy, I thought I told you not to vander off," the young man said to her in English. "Your brother is looking for you." He looked at Ivan. "Who is your friend?"

Amy shrugged. "He's not my friend," she replied in English.

Ivan felt baffled that he still couldn't figure out the accent.

"He just is a nice man who kept my umbrella from flying away," she continued. "He called it 'Malika'. Is that what Germans call umbrellas, Lukas?"

"Don't worry about that," Lukas told her as he held out his hand to Ivan. "Thank you for helping her," he said in German. "She and her brother are visiting me here from out of the country, and she probably would have chased it all over Berlin and gotten completely lost if you hadn't caught it for her. She's kind of clumsy like that."

"Think nothing of it," Ivan replied in German as he gave Lukas a single firm handshake. "I'm afraid I mistook your friend for someone I knew. That's why I called her Malika. Please forgive me."

Lukas nodded and took Amy by the hand. "Come on, your brother's waiting for you." He nodded as if to say goodbye to Ivan and guided Amy down the street and into a corner shop.

Ivan walked straight ahead without taking a second look at the pair.

* * *

"Oh my gosh, that scared me," Alfred said in English, grabbing Amelia into a hug after Lukas had pulled her into the store.

Amelia returned the hug.

"I was so lucky that Lukas was with me," Alfred continued. "Lukas noticed you, and then we saw that guy right behind you. I couldn't rescue you from him without his recognizing me. Some hero I am, hiding behind a magazine rack while this dude did all the work. What were you doing wandering around anyway?"

Amelia held out the list. "Tante Maria forgot some things she needed," she replied in English. "Thank you for help me out back there, Lukas."

"It was my pleasure to help you out," Lukas said in English as he grabbed the list. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'll go get Tante these groceries." He walked into the grocery area and started putting items into their almost-full basket.

Amelia pulled away from Alfred. "You're worrying over nothing Al," she said. "I think all my experience from Hollywood and this job helped me out again. I don't think Ivan recognized me; he looked confused when he saw my face. I'm glad I decided to buy some colored contacts to wear while we're here. But I'll tell ya, I didn't expect Ivan to follow me here."

Alfred frowned. "I'm not surprised," he said. "Gilbert did warn us he might, and Russia is tenacious if anything else. Speaking of that demon, Ames, you need to stop calling him that."

"Calling him what?" Amelia asked.

"Ivan," Alfred stated. "It makes you sound like you're friends."

Amelia blinked. "What am I supposed to call him when we're around non-nations?" she whispered.

Alfred looked like he hadn't realized that there wasn't another option. "Well, you need to call him Russia when it's just us," he whispered back. He turned to Lukas. "Hey buddy, why don't you pick out something special for yourself. Your quick thinking saved my bacon," he said as he walked over to where Lukas was.

"But we _**are**_ friends," Amelia said quietly, looking out the front window of the store and down the street. She could barely catch a glimpse of a fluttering scarf under a dark umbrella as it went around the corner and blinked away the stinging she felt in her eyes.

"Hey Sis, are you crying?" Alfred asked as he came back over to where she was.

Amelia shook her head. "No, I just got some mascara in my eyes from the rain," she lied, wiping her eyes.

"Well, I've finished paying for the groceries. Let's get back to Aunt Maria's," Alfred said.

The trio left the store, loaded down with groceries, and headed in the direction they had come from.

"I still can't believe you're changing your 'payment' for this job," Alfred said to Amelia as they let Lukas walk in front of them. "I thought you really wanted to take that tour of England more than anything in the world. You haven't stopped talking about going back there for almost 40 years."

Amelia shook her head as she shifted the umbrella she was holding for both of them. "After what's happened in East Germany and here, I think it's for the best. I just don't feel I can face England right now," she said, touching her hair and trying to suppress her confused feelings.

"What? ! What did that Commie bastard do to you that's making you act like this?" Alfred said, looking upset.

Amelia sighed. "I already told you. We only kissed a little bit."

"Well, I think that 'little bit' was still too much, but I guess it was necessary," Alfred said, pouting. "No one told me that was part of the girl spy's job; if I'd known that, I woulda—wait—what was that about facing England? Are you talking about Arthur?"

Amelia laughed. "Did I say that? I must be tired. I meant that I didn't feel like facing more time away from home. The sooner we get back, the happier I'll be."

"Me too," Alfred said. "I've gotten too used to only doing the foreign part of the job. Doing both is kicking my butt."

"It so nice to know how much you really missed me," Amelia said with a smirk, slugging Alfred on the arm.

When they got back to Tante Maria's place, the two siblings made sure to stay indoors until they left for the airport the next day.

"Do you love him?" Alfred asked Amelia later as their plane taxied up the runway for the United States.

She jumped and lowered the magazine she'd been reading to look at him. "Love?" Amelia asked nervously. "I'm sorry, who are we talking about?" _Did he figure out I'm in love with Arthur?_ she worried to herself.

"Russia," Alfred stated. The plane took off and the pressure from the takeoff seemed to emphasize his words. The two siblings were silent for a moment until the plane gave them a feeling of weightlessness as it began to cruise toward the United States.

"Good grief, has that been rotting your brain since yesterday?" she asked.

Alfred scowled. "Just answer the question."

Amelia studied her brother's face; she knew she couldn't be as honest to him as she was to Gilbert. He would react "poorly" to say the least, even though she wasn't sure what she felt for Ivan was pity, friendship, or more. "What if I said yes?"

"Then I'd never let you out of the country again if that's the result of you interacting with other nations," Alfred honestly stated.

_Poor Al_. _He's way too protective, or possessive, or whatever. _"If that's the case, then no, I don't love him . . . but I do feel sorry that what I did may have hurt Iv—Russia," she said just as honestly back. She glanced out the plane's window and thought she could see a green island north of the European continent.

"Don't worry about him, Sis," Alfred said, patting her hand. "I can say without a doubt he's got no heart to hurt. Did I ever tell you about the time when we were at a meeting during WWII, and Russia's heart just . . ."

Alfred continued on with his story, but Amelia didn't hear a word he said. Her mind was 38 years in the past, holding a warm hand in a dark bomb shelter under a London street.

* * *

Ivan gulped down his third bottle of vodka. He'd given up using a glass 2 bottles ago. The drink had made his head feel fuzzy, and he was starting to feel sleepy as he sat on the floor of his private office. He didn't bother to turn on the lights because the moonlight from the full moon poured through the window and filled the room with enough light to see.

_I can't understand it_, he thought. _Whether we search West Berlin or West Germany. There is no Malika Fuchs—no Malika Kirchner, either._ He laughed when he realized that he'd forgotten for a moment the name of the bastard who'd taken her from him so easily. _How can someone just disappear? _

Even with his "friends" in the USSR looking for her for the last 6 months; none of them had been able to find her, not even with the picture Lithuania had drawn to help identify her.

"Maybe the woman we're looking for doesn't exist," Estonia had said in Russian earlier.

Ivan had felt anger rise at this suggestion, but somehow he had maintained control. "She does exist," he had said in Russian with a deadpanned expression. "Lithuania and Prussia both met her, da?" He turned to the two nations.

They both went pale and looked at each other. "Da," they both replied at the same time, nodding.

"Perhaps she's left Germany?" Latvia suggested. "I mean, if I had a chance, I'd want to visit some island resorts or England or somewhere else in the world."

Ivan stared blankly at Latvia.

The little nation started quivering. "N-n-not that I need to t-t-t-travel," he said. "I'm h-h-h-h-happy just staying h-h-h-here with you, R-R-Russia."

Ivan had patted his head, and Latvia had looked shocked at how softly he had done it. "Your sentiments are appreciated, little one. Excuse me now, I have some business to attend to," he had said as he walked towards his private office.

Lately, his "business" meant that he'd drink in his private office until he got sleepy, and then he'd crawl up on a comfortable sofa and go to sleep until morning. As Ivan swallowed the last of the vodka, he felt someone's warm and slender arms wrap around his shoulders from behind him.

"Vanya, it's not healthy to keep doing this," a young woman's voice lovingly whispered in his ear. "I love you too much, and it worries me to death to see you like this."

He whirled around and clasped the young woman to his chest, squeezing her tightly and closing his eyes as he relished in the realness and warmth he felt from holding her. "Malika? My darling Malika, I knew you didn't abandon me. You were just keeping me in suspense, so I'd love you more, right?" he said as he drunkenly ran his hand through her hair. He could feel that her hair flowed all the way to her waist. It had to be her, and she must have heard about how he was and came to Moscow to make everything all right.

"Who's Malika?" the young woman said, her voice cold and dripping with malice.

Ivan pulled her away from his chest.

Natalia studied his face. "Why did you say you love her? Who is she? That person you and the others have been looking for?"

Ivan's words stuck in his throat. Natalia was the last person he wanted to hear what he hadn't been able to repeat since that day he had confessed to Malika.

"_**She's**_ the reason you're like _**this**_, isn't she?" Natalia's face was hard and frightening. She wrapped her arms around Ivan's neck, and he felt a slight shiver at this gesture. "I could make you forget her, Vanya," she cooed. "You can do whatever you want with me; I don't mind at all." She pecked him on the lips, and Ivan felt a chill run down his spine.

He removed her arms from around his neck. "My dear Natalushka, I appreciate your desire to help me, but let brother handle this by himself, da?" he said, trying to suppress the apprehensiveness her words and actions had evoked. He stood up and stumbled over to his desk and pulled out several sheets of paper. He walked over to the fireplace and tossed them onto the dying coals. The papers ignited into flames immediately.

Natalia stared at the papers as they turned to ash. "Vanya, those look like drawings of you. Why are you burning them? ! I could have framed them for you."

Ivan glanced down at the last drawing that he had in his hand: a rose gracefully covered the paper in black and white. "You said I should forget," he said, tossing the rose sketch onto the others. "I'm starting with these memories."

Natalia looked like she didn't understand, but that was all right; Ivan didn't want her to understand. He watched as the rose shriveled up and turned black, and he felt the feelings he had for the artist match it. When the last of the flames flickered out, Ivan sighed and shuffled toward the door. Natalia started to get up.

"Going to bed? Do you need company?" she asked.

"Dear little one, we're older now," he said. "We don't need to huddle together for comfort or warmth like when we were children. I'm fine sleeping alone." Ivan walked out the doorway and stumbled to his room, not caring if Natalia followed or not.

* * *

"Hey Ames, wake up," Alfred called.

Amelia jerked up from her bed. She squinted at her brother. "Al? What do you want?" she moaned as she flopped back onto her pillow.

"Thanks for the birthday present," he said. "You always know which video game I've been secretly wanting. Although, the guys were teasing me last night about having some secret girlfriend. Your handwriting is just too girly." He laughed at his joke.

"You're welcome," Amelia said. "Now can I go back to sleep?"

Alfred's stomach growled loudly.

Amelia sighed. "How about I make you some breakfast?"

"Gee thanks, Sis," Alfred said. "You're the best sibling I've ever had."

"Mmm-Kay, now get out so I can change," she said.

Alfred chuckled. "You're already dressed. Did you get drunk or something last night and fall asleep in your clothes?"

Amelia looked at herself; true to her brother's words, she was still fully dressed. "No," she croaked, glancing over at the window. The sunlight beamed in and caused her head to throb, reminding her that she'd drunk a half a bottle of vodka the night before. "Ugh . . . Yes." She'd gotten out of the habit of drinking that much of the Russian alcohol, but last night she'd gotten into a bit of a funk and decided to indulge. "Well, go on downstairs. I'll be there in a minute," she said, sitting up and clutching her head. "My stomach feels queasy. I'll be right down after I have had some medicine."

Alfred nodded and hurried out the door.

Amelia sighed as she look at herself in her medicine cabinet mirror and smoothed out her bangs and chin-length bob with her fingers. She then rummaged through her medicine cabinet and thought about the reason she had gotten drunk the night before.

Ever since her little stint with spying had ended in 1982, she had happily spent the last 27 years taking care of domestic business at home. Alfred had celebrated his birthday yesterday, and she'd made plans watch the fireworks alone from her back porch, having already dropped off his present and wished him a "Happy Birthday" the day before.

She'd heard that a local radio station was going to coordinate patriotic music to the capital's firework show, and she had dug through her closet to find her portable radio so that she could listen without having to blast the music from her stereo in her den.

As she looked for it, several shoe-boxes full of documents tumbled out, spilling their contents all over the floor. As she gathered them up, the word "England" caught her eye on one of the papers. She picked up yellowed paper and glanced over the words.

"I promise to take you on a tour through England," Alfred's handwriting stated. "I'll introduce you to our ex-bro, Artie, and I promise other payments such as—" Amelia stuffed the contract back into the shoe-box it had fallen out of and shoved it back onto the closet shelf before grabbing the radio.

She couldn't read the rest. To protect their secret and keep Russia from finding out who she really was, she'd willingly given up the one thing she wanted to do since 1944: meet Arthur Kirkland and be formally introduced to him. If not for keeping the secret, if she'd been able to get to the United Kingdom and Alfred had reneged on introducing her, she'd planned on slipping away from her brother and meeting Arthur as "Amelia Jones, Alfred's sister" herself.

She didn't want to think about what made this Independence Day different from all the others: the World Conference had been held in the United States that year. Alfred had arranged for it to be a few days before his birthday, so that his nation friends didn't have to make two trips. It had made Amelia think about things she hadn't focused on in years and seeing that contract hadn't helped.

_This is the second time in 6 years Arthur has been here in the States,_ she thought. Alfred had made her make breakfast for him and their former brother 6 years ago before Arthur had left for the United Kingdom. She'd asked Alfred to introduce her to Arthur then, but he'd flat-out refused when the time came. She had punished Alfred by going with Elizabeta (one of the few nations who knew about her whom he allowed her to be friends with) to one of the most expensive restaurants in town and then shopping for new clothes and shoes and then sending the bill to him.

She let out a frustrated sigh. _I have no doubt Arthur has already flown back home, and with him, another chance, _she mused. _I wish Al would stop being such a worry-wart about things. It's not like Arthur would go blabbing it to everyone. Besides, I'm sure Iv—Russia has forgotten about me by now. _

She sighed deeper and walked downstairs to go sit on her back porch. Perhaps watching fireworks would help keep her mind off of things she'd rather not think about.

As she walked through the kitchen on the way to the back yard, she glanced at the bottle of vodka gleaming from the cabinet where she kept all her strong spirits and alcohol. She stopped and stared at the bottle. _H__e wouldn't have stayed for Al's birthday, but i__f I did bump into Russia and he remembered me, I wonder how he'd react,_ she thought. An image of violet eyes, showing hurt or pain or even anger where they had once smiled when they saw her, appeared before her. She had felt a pang of regret as that image had swirled around her mind, but then it had been replaced with a pair of beautiful green eyes that were warm and kind.

"Ah what the hell . . ." she had said finally as she had grabbed the bottle out of the cabinet and walked out onto the back porch.

"Y'know, it's weird that you got drunk last night too," Alfred said, bringing her out of her recollection of the night before. She'd been unable to find any stomach medicine, so she'd headed downstairs and started breakfast.

"Too? You got drunk last night? At your party?"

Alfred chortled at her question. "No," he said, "Don't be silly. I would never get wasted around those guys, even if they are my friends. Who knows what they'd get me to do? Nah. I was talking about Artie. After the World Conference, he skipped out on my party, got totally smashed, and missed his flight. Francis just texted me about it. He'll be leaving today instead." Alfred grabbed the toast out of the toaster when it popped up and started buttering it.

Amelia tried to look nonchalant as she listened to her brother. She suddenly found it difficult to tie her apron.

"He always does this," he said, snickering. "He says he can hold his liquor better than me and then doesn't bother to stop himself until he's completely sloshed. I'm surprised he was sober enough to tell the cab driver where to go afterward. Why'd he decide to go drinking anyway?"

Amelia grabbed a frying pan. "You probably said something that rubbed him the wrong way. You've always had a talent for that."

Alfred shrugged and grabbed the Tabasco sauce from her spice cupboard.

She broke open some eggs and threw some bits of real bacon in as she scrambled them. When they finished cooking, she put the eggs on a plate for Alfred, removed her apron, and headed for the door.

"Aren't you gonna eat?" Alfred asked, grabbing some orange juice from the refrigerator.

"I couldn't find any medicine for my stomach," she said. "Just smelling food is making me more nauseous, and I don't want to eat until I've run down to the corner drugstore to get some medicine. I'll be right back."

When she arrived at the drugstore, Amelia had a hard time deciding which medicine to purchase. The last one she had used didn't work at all, and the one before that didn't help with the other symptoms she had.

"The best medicine for stomachaches caused by hangovers is this one," a young man with a British accent said, reaching over her shoulder and selecting it from the shelf.

"Thank you, but how did you know that I was hung-over?" she asked, turning to see who had come to her aid. Amelia felt her heart leap to her throat as she caught her breath and stepped back into the shelves of medicine, knocking several onto the floor.

"I beg your pardon; I didn't mean to startle you," Arthur said, bending over to pick up the medicine. "If I invaded your personal space, I apologize . . ."

Amelia stared at him. He was dressed in a blue-gray Radiohead T-shirt and black jeans. She noticed a chain that traveled from his belt loop to his wallet in his pocket. He looked like a modern-day young man who had stopped by the drugstore on his way to college classes.

_Oh my gosh, he even looks hot in everyday clothes, _she thought, mentally drooling. _I don't know why I expected him to be in a suit._ "You're fine—I mean—you didn't do anything wrong. I'm sorry," Amelia said as she scrambled to help him. She grabbed a bottle of pink medicine just as Arthur reached for the same bottle a millisecond later than her.

His hand covered hers for a moment, and he immediately pulled it away. "Sorry," he said, blushing slightly.

Amelia felt electricity pass between them when their eyes made contact. She felt her face match his when he didn't look away, and her hand started tingling from the contact with his hand.

"Arthur, hurry up, ze plane will be leaving soon," a blonde Frenchman called as he came around the aisle corner to where they both were. He observed the two for a moment. "Mon ami, you don't have time to be picking up girls. Allons-y!"

Arthur reddened at this comment, stood up, and shoved the medicine he'd gathered sloppily onto the shelves. Amelia also stood and replaced the bottle she'd grabbed.

"I wasn't hitting on her, you stupid wanker," he said. "I was helping her with something."

"Sure you were, mon ami. Well, you're in the wrong aisle for zat anyway," the Frenchman replied, wiggling his eyebrows and grinning as he held up something in his hand. "You need to go two aisles over; I was picking up some for—"

"Blast it! Shut your stupid, perverted mouth," Arthur cried, blushing and pushing the item in the Frenchman's hand out of Amelia's line of vision. He turned back to her. "I apologize for my associate here." The other man, who Amelia was now suspecting was France, shrugged, fluffed his shoulder-length hair, and went over to the cashier to pay for his selection.

Arthur grabbed the medicine he'd indicated earlier and handed it to her before grabbing a container himself. "To answer your question, you looked like you were feeling as ill and hung-over as I feel," he said. "This will definitely do the trick. I have had my friend here in the States send me some every year because it works so well. Now I'd better get going before he comes back. Good luck!" He waved the medicine container in the air as he walked over to the checkout.

"Thank you!" she called, still stunned from the encounter.

Arthur nodded, paid for his medicine and left before Amelia's wits came back to her.

_You idiot. You could have introduced yourself right then,_ she scolded herself. _No, that would have made things complicated, and he would have missed his flight again if he stayed to hear the explanations._

Amelia paid for her medicine and walked back to her house. As she walked up the path to her house from the street, her mind wandered to that yellowed paper in the shoe-box upstairs. Alfred was finishing up his breakfast when she walked in.

"Hey Al, do you remember that contract you made with me back when I spied for you during the Cold War?" Amelia asked as she opened her medicine and got some water to take it with.

"Yeah, but I paid you for that already with the new contract you wrote when we got home," he said, "I even sent that information to your handler like you requested, which took a lot of negotiation and string-pulling to pull off by the way."

"Thank you for that. So I was wondering: Is there any way I could get paid the original payment for my work this year or for some other major job you need me to do in the near future?" she asked. "It would be nice to go on a trip out of the country. We haven't done that for years." She swallowed the medicine and then put some bread in the toaster to start her breakfast.

Alfred narrowed his eyes. "I'd have to think about it," he said. "But maybe you could go when it's Artie's turn to host the Conference in a couple of years; that way we could save on airfare. Why are you asking?"

"No reason," she said, trying to act indifferent as she felt her cheeks grow hot. "I'm just in the mood for something English."

* * *

It had been almost 30 years, and Ivan hadn't thought about Malika at all. In fact, he'd practically forgotten she even existed. So much had happened to distract him from trivial matters like love and affection: the war had gotten worse and the USSR was finally forced to give up on Afghanistan, and the Wall (his beautiful wall) had been torn down, along with his precious barriers—his satellite states—one by one, because of that capitalist pig America and his ridiculous friends. Somehow, miraculously, he and America had become civil but wary associates again. That's why he could come to the World Conference without getting furious at seeing that idiot's face.

Ivan had not been looking forward at all to this year's World Conference. It was in the United Kingdom, and it always rained there, even during the summer. He really preferred to stay warm and dry if he could. Oddly enough, though, on the day of the Conference, the sunshine had streamed beautifully through the windows and over the flower gardens for most of the meeting. Ivan noted with satisfaction that he could glance out those windows and admire the English gardens whenever the meeting threatened to get boring.

For the most part, though, it had been entertaining as usual to watch the nations bicker and argue over the same things as the year before. Ivan mostly amused himself with the knowledge that it was just a matter of time before they all joined with Russia. Even with the fall of the Wall and the breakup of his houseful of friends, he knew it was inevitable. He just needed to be patient.

The thing, though, that intrigued him the most that day was the maids and the afternoon tea service England had served. One of the girls who had stayed behind to refill the trays and cups of tea and coffee reminded him of someone, but he couldn't put his finger on exactly who.

"I have met you somewhere before, da?" Ivan asked as the blonde refilled his cup. He decided to try the code his spies used to identify themselves. "Haven't we met in California last summer?" he stated. If she replied, "No, I think it was the Hamptons", then it would confirm that suspicion.

The young lady smiled. "I bet you say that to all the ladies, you charmer," she said with British accent.

Ivan started; he wasn't expecting her to sound like England. Even his best spies couldn't completely master the accent as beautiful as hers sounded. Her blue-gray eyes sparkled at her joke, and a memory bubbled up to the surface of Ivan's memories.

_Where have I seen those eyes before? _An image of a dark-haired woman transposed over the maid he was now looking at. _Malika_. He waited for the anger to flow up from the pain that woman had caused him all those years ago, but nothing happened. "Do not be coy with me, miss," he said in English. "You look like моя темноволосая лисица."

He examined her face. "It has been many years, da. Вы изменились мало, но . . . Вы не признают твой Иван?" Ivan looked down at his clothes and felt confused. "But I appear the same as I did back then," he stated in Russian. When her face belied no recognition, Ivan started to doubt a little. After all, this woman still looked almost as young as Malika did all those years ago. _Perhaps is her daughter?_

"I beg your pardon, sir," the young lady said in English, "but I don't speak a word of Polish." Her ignorance of what his mother tongue sounded like caused Ivan's mind to reel. If this was Malika or her daughter, she should have known it was Russian he was speaking.

"Da. It is obvious," he replied, still feeling a little stunned.

Off to his left, he heard England sigh. He glanced over at the nation and saw that he was looking over at the woman. _He must be upset by her lack of knowledge of other languages_, Ivan concluded, knowing how proud England was of his people and their intellects.

The young woman curtsied and moved to the next nation with an empty cup.

The other nations continued to jabber on and argue, but Ivan didn't hear a word they said. For some reason, he couldn't take his eyes off this maid. The more he looked at her, the more he was convinced that she was Malika. _If only I could get some proof, then I'd be able to confront her and force her to confirm my suspicion_.

He watched as she filled each nations' cup and smiled with delight when they thanked her. _Why is she getting so much enjoyment from being acknowledged by us?_ Ivan wondered. It was then that he noticed that France had also been watching her, and he had that look in his eyes that always meant trouble.

America made some stupid joke about everything being fine with his economy and had gotten scolded for it as usual. It amused Ivan that the silly nation was so talented at getting everyone's attention and ire that no one noticed when other nations had worse problems than America did.

The maid sneezed, covering her mouth and nose barely in time. "Excuse me," she said, pulling a handkerchief out of her apron pocket. She turned away to wipe her nose and then popped something in her mouth from her other pocket.

Germany gave her a cursory "Gesundheit" and then all the nations went back to business. America suggested one of his stupid plans, which was immediately turned down and ridiculed.

Ivan watched as the maid exchanged a note and a smile with Hungary. _Odd. Why do they remind me of Natalia and Katyusha all of a sudden?_

When the maid got closer to France, Ivan saw him gulp down his tea, then pushed the sandwiches' tea tray farther away from the edge of the table. France then signaled for her. She came over, and France quietly asked her to do something, pointing at the tray he'd pushed away earlier. She poured him more tea, set down the teapot, and leaned over the table to pick up the bottom tray from its setting.

France smirked as he watched her do this, and suddenly, she looked up, surprise spreading across her face. Her eyes narrowed, then flashed with an anger that struck a familiar chord in Ivan. He felt a wave of delight at the delicious reaction it caused in him.

"Pervert!" she screamed loudly, whipping around with the tray still in her hands.

France held up his hands in surrender too late; she planted the tray firmly on his face with a delightful, resounding "GOOONG!".

Ivan heard himself let out a little laugh.

The commotion that happen next was extremely amusing for Ivan; he even got to participate, something he usually didn't get to do because the Conference would always end in a huge argument before they got to his turn.

After determining that France could not be roused, the World Conference was temporarily put on hold as America and Sweden took the comatose nation to the infirmary and the rest of the nations took a break.

Ivan picked up the dented tea tray and examined it. _The damage to this . . ._ he thought as he looked at how much it had bent. "England, this is not silver, da?" He held up the tray.

England looked distracted, but he acknowledged Ivan's question. "It's stainless steel, plated with silver, I believe," he said. "Why?"

_As I thought, to be able to bend that kind of metal this much, either France has a really hard head or she has to be . . ._ Ivan put on his most reassuring smile and set the tray back on the table. "Just wondering," he said. Despite Ivan's efforts to calm him with his smile and words, England appeared uneasy.

The only sound in the room was a quiet snoring. Both nations turned toward the sound. Greece nodded in his chair. _He never changes_. Ivan smiled in amusement at the sleeping nation.

When England started looking around the room as if he'd lost something, Ivan noticed that the girl had disappeared. He saw a flash of golden-colored hair outside the window in the gardens. America was gesturing to his stomach while talking to Canada as they briskly walked through the path that wove through the flowers. _They never change either_. _That pig is always hungry. Didn't we just eat? _

Then he saw someone else that he was beginning to believe hadn't changed either, or at least, someone who appeared to have only slightly changed in the last 30 years: The blond maid who had knocked France out earlier dashed into the garden and looked around. She stopped by some rosebushes with a panicked look on her face. _Who or what is she looking for?_ Ivan wondered. _Maybe she's planning her __escape before England fires her or France sues her? _Both of those theories disappeared when she turned around and walked back into the building.

"I think I'll be going now," he said, heading toward the door. "I need to pick a lovely sunflower I had my eye on earlier before she disappears from my sight."

England nodded and picked up the ruined tea tray as Ivan walked out the door.

Ivan glanced down the hallway. There were nations chatting with each other or admiring art or enjoying their break. He walked down the hallway and turned the corner in the direction of the gardens. The maid was walking towards the direction Ivan was coming from.

Everything about her was the same: the way she walked, her figure, the way her hair had a slight curl to it, her blue-gray eyes. The only thing that had changed was that she looked a little older than Malika had back then, and her hairstyle and hair color were completely different. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced this woman was either Malika herself (and had gotten some amazing plastic surgery) or Malika's daughter.

He needed it to be confirmed, though, before he acted. _Maybe I can lure her away where no one can interrupt us and get her to confess she's Malika or tell me where to find her,_ Ivan mused. _Then Malika can pay for embarrassing me all those years ago. _Finally, he felt the anger and bitterness he'd been harboring for almost 30 years come to the surface, and he relished it.

Ivan strode toward her, determined to get things done before anyone noticed. The girl stopped in the hallway and appeared to be wrestling with something in her mind because she hadn't noticed him yet. She brought her hands to her mouth and bit on her thumbnail.

Ivan glanced at her hands and a warmth fluttered into his heart and melted away every dark feeling he had in there. _Those hands . . . my darling's adorable, little hands,_ he thought as he felt his heart thud a familiar urgency in his chest. _How is it possible that they are still holding onto my heart?_

Suddenly, Ivan felt as if he had been transported back in time and had been given another chance to say and do what he wanted to all those years ago. "My sweet darling, where have you been all this time?" he asked her in English, reaching out and tenderly grabbing her right hand with his left.

The girl turned toward Ivan. She blushed and tried to pull her hand away. "What are you doing?" she flustered.

Ivan smiled warmly at her. "I've missed you, Malika."

* * *

**A/N**

***Interesting thing about the title: Do Svidaniya does not mean "Goodbye Forever" as is commonly believed. A better way to say that farewell would be "Proshchaĭ navsegda" (Прощай навсегда). Do Svidaniya (or до свидания) simply means "Goodbye", or more literally, it means "Until we meet again" (or "Until we see each other again"), which is why it's perfect to use for the title.**

**One last interesting note: If Arthur Kirkland was German, his name would be Barrett Kirchner (if we based it solely on the meaning of the names; the Celtic meaning of Arthur=bear, Kirkland=church land; Barrett=bear strength, Kirchner=church landlord/caretaker-I figured they were close enough).**

**Translations:**

**Tante = Aunt ("Tantchen" is a more intimate way of saying "Aunt" which is why Lukas, her real nephew, says it)**

**Gern geschehen = You're welcome or My pleasure (literally, "I like that it happened")**

**Natalushka = the diminutive of Natalia, just like Vanya is the diminutive of Ivan. Family members also call each other by these names as a sign of affection.**

**Mon ami= my friend**

**Allons-y = Let's get going (or something along those lines).**

**моя темноволосая лисица = my dark-haired vixen (or fox)**

**Вы изменились мало, но . . . Вы не признают твой Иван? = You changed a little, but . . . you do not recognize your Ivan? **

**Now we'll pick up where we left off at the end of Ch. 7, with Arthur storming down the hallway toward these two in order to rescue Amelia from Ivan. Once I post Ch. 15, the end of Ch. 7 and the beginning of Ch. 15 should fit seamlessly together (not that I want to get rid of the subplot; I love it) .**

**Omake:**

Modern-day Ivan: "Ahem."

Me: *jumps* "Y-y-yes Ivan?"

Ivan: "Why didn't you warn me?"

Me: "Would it have made a difference?"

Ivan: "That's not the point. The point is I'm not the only one who'll be feeling pain from this." *pulls out faucet-pipe*

Me: "! ! ! Wait! If you do that, you'll only be hurting yourse—"

Belarus: "Brother, who's this girl?"

Ivan: *jumps* говно! Where did you come from? !"

Belarus: *shrugs* "All I know is that I just materialized here a moment ago wearing this." *whirls around in a wedding dress* "It must be fate, Brother. So marry me, marry me, marry me" *holds out 'grabby hands' toward Russia* "marry me, marry me, marry me—"

Ivan: *runs away* "Noooo! Go away! Go away! Go away!"

Belarus: *runs after him*

Me: "Phew. That was close. Thank goodness for author powers."

Arthur: *walks up* "You kept me waiting off-stage for quite a long time, you know."

Me: *looks down* "I know. Please forgive me?"

Arthur: *grabs my hand and kisses it* "Of course, dear lady."

Me: "Heh heh heh" *swoons*

Arthur: *catches me* "What the . . .?"

**Yes, Ivan swore at Belarus; this is the modern-day Ivan, after all, who knows what Bela is capable of now (you should be able to translate that word he says in a variety of online translators). And yes, I also react that way to guys cosplaying as England ^_^ LOL.**

_Also, I'll be writing a Gakuen Hetalia AU Gender-bend (quite a mash-up, da?) fic in the near future. I've created a sorta-Role Play style forum to help out with things like voting for Student Council and helping out with names for nations who haven't received human names yet._ **Please check out my profile for the current poll and links to the forum (come play with me? I'll greatly appreciate it).**


	15. Forgiveness,Libraries,& Awkward 1st Kiss

**Ch. 15: Forgiveness, Libraries, & Awkward First Kisses**

_How on earth does Alfred keep from developing ulcers trying to watch out for this girl? _Arthur wondered as he got closer to the couple standing by the garden doors. _Wait . . . what am I thinking? Both siblings are trouble magnets. _Arthur could hear Russia speaking to Amelia in gentle tones as he held onto the young woman's hand.

"Please don't worry. I'm not going to hurt you, мое восхитительное, небольшая темноволосая лисица," Russia was saying to Amelia. He snuggled his cheek against her hand, which he held captive in his hand.

Amelia stepped back in an effort to release herself but seemed unable to free her hand.

Russia looked thoughtful. "I suppose I should call you мало подсолнечника now though, da?" he said, his violet eyes warm with adoration. "Why did you dye your hair blond? Your dark hair was so beautiful. You did not need to change it."

Arthur stopped short. _What on earth is going on? Why is Russia going on again as if he knows Amelia? _

"Sir, this is my natural color," Amelia protested in her London accent, trying in vain to release her hand, "and as I told you before, I don't speak Polish or whatever you're speaking."

Russia ignored her. "Где же вы были, любовник? Ваш Иван был настолько одинок с 1982."

"Sir, I only speak English," Amelia protested.

"Fine. We will play that game if you want to," Russia said, letting out a giggle. "It was always fun to play games with you. Although, my mood was so low when I got home to Moscow after trying to find you in West Berlin that I was forced to play with my silly Baltics to cheer myself up. If they ever complain about that to you, remember it was your fault, da?"

He grabbed Amelia around her waist and pulled her closer to him. "I thought I wouldn't be able to when we met again, but somehow I've managed to forgive you for what you did."

Amelia put her free hand up to try to push herself away from him, but Russia caught that hand as well in his other hand.

_Bloody hell! What happened to that monstrous strength of hers_?_ I'm not strong enough to take on Russia by myself,_ Arthur thought as he watched the scene. _Why doesn't she just knock him out like she did France_? He glanced up and down the hall. _Where's that damn brother of hers when she_ _**really**_ _needs him_?

"Sir. Stop please," Amelia cried. Arthur looked back at the pair. Russia was kissing the palm of the hand he'd caught. Amelia was blushing deeply and trying to pull away from him. "I-I-I already have someone I like. I d-d-don't even know you. Please let go!" Her accent was starting to crumble; it was like watching _My Fair Lady__*_ in reverse.

Suddenly, logic and size difference didn't matter anymore. Arthur walked up to the pair and clapped a hand on Russia's arm. Amelia looked ecstatic when she saw him; Russia turned and blinked, still holding both of her hands.

"Ivan, please release my employee," Arthur said. "Your behavior is uncalled for and inappropriate."

"Why would I need to let go?" Russia asked. "This is my Malika. Isn't that right?" Russia smiled and leaned in toward Amelia; she leaned away and shook her head. "We've known each other a long time. Since 1981. Right, Malika?"

"Please help me, sir," she said, looking at Arthur. She was able to recover some semblance of her English accent. It wasn't the accent she had before, but it was close enough. "This strange man keeps saying odd things to me."

"Malika. What are you saying?" Russia said. "Не называйте вашего Ивана странным. I know you. Я никогда не встречал другую женщину столь же сильную как Вы."

Arthur put his free hand in between them. Russia stopped leaning toward Amelia and looked at him.

"Ivan, what was that you said about 1981?" Arthur asked. He fought the urge to try forcing them apart. In terms of strength, he was no match for the larger nation. "How could she possibly be someone from that long ago? That was over 30 years ago. If she is this 'Malika' you knew, wouldn't she look a lot older?"

Russia stared at Arthur, and then he looked at Amelia. "He is right. I did notice how young you look. Well then, if you aren't Malika, perhaps you are her daughter? If so, tell me where to find her," Russia said to her. "Вы должны мне так очень по крайней мере."

She shook her head. "I don't know who this 'Malika' is, so I'm definitely not her daughter."

Russia lowered his hands, still holding on to Amelia's hands, and took a long look at her. He narrowed his eyes as if he was trying to figure out something in his head.

"You see? As I've been trying to tell you: this is my employee, Emily Clark," Arthur said. "You can clearly see that she can't be who you think she is. She looks barely 20."

"She does look young," Russia agreed, "but then so do we, da?"

_Shit! Damn clever Russia. I knew he might be able to put two and two together. _Arthur laughed. "Don't be silly. Of course, _**we**_ do," he said, "but she's not like _**you**_ or _**me**__._" It wasn't a real lie. She was a woman; they were men. As long as he thought of it that way, his face belied nothing.

"Is that so?" Russia said.

Arthur put a hand on each of their arms. "Yes. Now please release her," he said quickly. "I need to speak with her privately."

Russia studied Amelia's face. "Eble vi kompreni nun? Estas kio li diris vera?"

Arthur bit his lip and looked at Amelia.

Her expression was blank. "I'm sorry, sir. I don't speak Spanish either. Please let me go now."

"Brother," Belarus growled behind him.

Russia turned ashen.

"Why are you holding that girl's hands?" Belarus asked.

Russia immediately let go of Amelia and turned to face his sister. He smiled, but he looked terrified. "Don't be silly, Sister. I merely mistook this maid for a little girl I needed to punish for wasting my time a few years ago, but I was wrong. She isn't who I thought she was."

Arthur wasted no time. He grabbed Amelia by the wrist and rushed her away from the Russian siblings.

She stumbled behind him. "Arthur, I—"

"Not a word until we find some place private to talk," he interrupted. He stopped, opened a door to a room and looked in. _Office. No good. They're used too often; someone might interrupt us. _He tried a different door. _A library. Perfect._

He stepped inside and pulled Amelia in after him. Arthur released her wrist, shut the door, and locked it. He walked over to the window and looked out.

Silence permeated the room. A bobby walked down the street outside.

Finally, Arthur turned around. "You nearly blew your cover by knocking out France; you know that, right?"

Amelia nodded.

"And what was all that with Russia?" He gestured towards the door as if to point where Russia was. "The only reason he used Esperanto just now is because he suspects you're a nation. Speaking of which, would you mind explaining to me why he thinks he knows you?"

She played with the hem of her apron. "You heard him."

"I didn't understand everything," Arthur admitted.

Amelia waved a hand in defeat. "He thought I was his 'little dark-haired vixen'," she said. "He corrected himself and called me his 'little sunflower'. He wanted to know where I had been since 1982 because he'd been lonely without me. He scolded me for calling him strange and told me I was the strongest woman he'd ever met. In the conference room, he had expressed how confused he was that I hadn't aged." She blushed a deep red. "A lot of what he said was laced with little endearments and lovey-dovey stuff because he believes I was his girlfriend from back then."

Arthur blinked. "Wait—You understood everything he said?"

Amelia nodded again.

"Then tell me. Were you his girlfriend?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

She started to shake her head, then let go of her apron's hem. "Kinda."

"What? ! How? !" Arthur asked.

"How else?" Amelia answered, shrugging. "Boy meets girl. They talk. They flirt. They kiss."

"No, I mean, I thought you said that Alfred kept you a secret from other nations," he clarified. "How could he risk you getting that close to his biggest enemy?" Arthur stopped. "Wait a minute. Flirt? Did you just say you _**kissed**_ Russia?" For some reason, that bothered him.

"No—it's not what you're thinking," Amelia said, sounding a little irritated. "The whole thing was for espionage. Cold War spy stuff. Al and the boss thought that Iv—Russia might divulge some valuable information to a girlfriend more easily, so they arranged for me to get set up in the East Berlin and seduce him. The seduction part worked, but he didn't tell me anything the regular spy network couldn't have found out. I ended up having to steal the information when he wasn't looking. Al got me out of there when Russia started to talking about me moving to Moscow with him."

Arthur rubbed the bridge of his nose. "That was a very dangerous game you both played," he said finally.

"I know," Amelia replied, her voice quivering slightly. "Gilbert and Toris both helped me to realize that much later. I knew them both before I met Russia, y'see."

Arthur sat back against a desk. _How many nations really know about her?_ _It's not fair that I wasn't the first to find out about her—wait—why do I care about that?_

"Both Toris and Gil came to visit during the '90s, and Al invited them to visit Hawaii with him and me," she continued. "Toris always wore a shirt, no matter how hot it was, but one time, I accidentally caught him with it off. He's covered in scars, Arthur, all from Russia. And Gil gets quiet and sullen whenever Russia is mentioned and won't go near him if he can help it. It was a side of Russia I didn't know."

She leaned up against the closed door.

"But the worst part is while I'm here, I'm supposed to be a non-nation human," she stated, her voice clearly shaking and her eyes edged with tears. "I had the strength to easily break free from Russia's grasp earlier, but I couldn't because I accidentally used my full strength as 'Malika' all those years ago. If I'd used any of my strength, nothing I could have said to deny my past identity would have worked. I couldn't think of what to do, and no one seemed to notice I was in trouble. All I could think was, 'If he finds out who I am, I'm dead.' If you hadn't come and saved me, I—" Suddenly, she sank down to the floor. "Even now I can't stop shaking." She held up her hands, and Arthur could see they were trembling.

He hurried over to her and bent down to help her up. Amelia grabbed him, pulled him down onto the floor in front of her, and buried her face in his chest. Arthur knelt flabbergasted for a moment but then sat on the floor and embraced her. He could feel Amelia shivering and breathing rapidly.

_Where did the confident girl from this morning go?_ He felt her arms curl around him as she clung to him. "Shh, you're safe now," he said in a quiet voice, trying to calm her. His heart started to ache, and he pulled her in closer and tighter. Amelia hiccupped back tears. Arthur kissed her hair, and the smell of roses and vanilla he'd noticed earlier floated up, making him feel a little intoxicated. They stayed like that, embracing each other, for several minutes. Finally, Amelia's breathing slowed, and she let out a sigh.

When she didn't let go, Arthur reluctantly moved away from her. "Are you all right now?" he asked, placing his hands first on her shoulders and then gently cupping her face in his hands as he gazed into her eyes.

Amelia nodded as a tear trickled down her cheek.

Arthur pulled out his handkerchief and wiped it away. "Good," he said, standing up. He held out his hand to help her stand up. She took it and let him help her up and then guide her over to a couch. After she sat down, he headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" she asked, panic rising in her voice.

"To get you something hot to drink," Arthur replied.

"Please, I'm okay now, so there's no need for that," Amelia said, holding out her hand.

Arthur shrugged and sat down in a chair nearby where she was sitting.

She played with her apron hem again. "Thank you for thinking of me, though," she said, smiling at him, "and thank you for rescuing me from that situation."

"Think nothing of it," Arthur said, feeling nervous at her smile. "It's what Alfred would have done if he'd seen you in trouble."

Amelia's mouth dropped open. She looked at him for a couple moments and then closed her mouth and frowned. "You don't have to fill in for him, you know," she said, looking away from him. "Technically, you and I aren't even related. You've no obligation to play the 'older brother'. That's Al's job anyway."

Arthur felt a hint of hurt and then anger. "Then what role can I play? !" he asked, standing up. "What am I to you, Amelia? Am I just like Russia: someone for you to seduce and get information from to give to Alfred? Is that why you kissed me on the cheek this morning?"

Amelia turned back to look at him, her eyes wide. "I—wait—you think—" she stammered, standing up to face him. "Is that why you think I did that?"

"You kissed your boyfriend, Russia; what makes the kiss you gave me this morning any different?" Arthur stated.

"Russia is _**not**_ my boyfriend. And I kissed you because . . . oh forget it," Amelia said, looking away from him. "I don't want to tell you when you're like this." She started to turn away from him and head for the door.

Arthur grabbed her arm and jerked her around to face him. "When I'm like what?" he seethed.

"You're angry . . . hurt . . . upset," she stated. "I don't know!"

Arthur blinked, and the emotions that were boiling inside him dissipated instantly. _Why __am I upset? Why hurt?_

Amelia pulled her arm out of his grasp. "I'll tell you why I kissed you some other time," she said as she walked over to the door and jerked on the handle. The door's lock squeaked a protest at her strength. She let out a frustrated sound and unlocked the door.

Arthur marched over to the door and pushed it shut just as she had managed to open it. "No. Not 'some other time'. Tell me now," he demanded. Amelia tried to walk away from the door, but he placed his hands against the door on both sides of where she was standing, using his arms to block her escape.

"Why did you comfort me just now?" Amelia turned around, her eyes edged with new tears.

The closeness of their faces caused Arthur to feel nervous and light-headed, but he shook it off. "That's because I'm like a brother—"

"Liar!" Amelia interrupted. "That's not why. I kissed you for the same reason you held me and comforted me just now." Tears started to trickle down her cheeks again.

Arthur opened his mouth to state again that he only did it because she was a former sibling or because she was a damsel-in-distress and it was his duty to help her, but his heart ached at those words, and they stuck in his throat. _No. I didn't hold her for those reasons_. _I didn't know about her, so she's not like a little sister to me, and I don't want to be a just knight-in-shining-armor to her. Those reasons are just excuses . . ._

Arthur reached up and wiped away her tears. Several wisps of hair had come loose from her Gibson tuck hairstyle, and he smoothed them away from her face. The softness of her hair reminded him of what had happened that morning, and his stomach flip-flopped. He let his fingers linger in her hair.

His heart began to pound, and he cupped her face in his hands. Amelia studied his face, her eyes trying to find meaning in his actions. Arthur gently kissed a tear off her cheek. She placed her hand over one of his hands and pressed her cheek against them. She closed her eyes and smiled. e noticed that her breathing got deeper and quicker, and he felt the same inclination to kiss her that he'd felt when he first met her.

"Amelia," Arthur said.

She opened her blue-gray eyes and looked into his eyes. "Yes, Arthur?"

He caressed her cheek with his thumb. She moved her hand away from his and stroked his hair. She lowered her hand, allowing her fingertips to caress his skin as she did until her arm rested lightly on his shoulder. She played with the locks of hair that curled just above the back of his neck, her fingers tracing circles of ecstasy. This action sent a wave of tingling that flowed over his entire body like lightning, and Arthur found himself unable to think clearly or articulate anything.

The perfume of nervous excitement saturated the air, and sparks of electricity seemed to pass between them. He found himself unable to look away from her gaze, and he felt himself being pulled closer to her as if she had some sort of gravity holding him close to her. Amelia closed her eyes and tilted her chin slightly up towards him. Arthur suddenly had a difficult time remembering to breathe as he glanced down at her lips. He closed his eyes and leaned down towards her until he could almost feel the heat ghosting off her mouth on his lips—

"Hey Artie, are you in here?" Alfred called, pushing the door open.

Amelia's mouth met Arthur's in an abrupt motion as the door bumped her into him. The momentum caused her to tumble forward, and she put up her other hand to stop herself from falling, which only served in pushing Arthur backwards. He toppled onto the floor with a "Thud", and Amelia landed on top of him, face-planting on his abdomen. She pulled away immediately, blushing as she sat back on the floor in front of him.

Alfred, obviously having felt something stop the door, peeked into the library and looked around.

His sister quickly adjusted herself so that she was facing the door.

"Hey there you are," Alfred said, grinning and opening the door wider when he spotted them. "I've been looking all over for you two. The break's over, and the other nations are askin' for ya, Artie." He examined the scene in front of him. "Why're you both on the floor?"

"We were just about to leave this library," Arthur explained.

"Yeah, and you happened to open the door just as we reached it, which knocked us down," Amelia joined in, trying to smooth her still-untidy hair.

Arthur cringed at the awkward way they were talking. _He's going to be able to tell we're lying. It's so obvious._

Alfred narrowed his eyes. "Okay . . . well, your petticoat is showing, Sis."

Amelia quickly adjusted the way she was sitting on the floor. Her brother came into the library and held out his hand. She took his hand, and he pulled her to her feet as if she weighed no more than a soap bubble.

Arthur stood up and straightened his clothes.

"Let's go Ames," Alfred said, not releasing her hand. "You need to apologize for interrupting the Conference." He turned and guided her toward the door.

Arthur touched his lips; they were tingling. He glanced over at Amelia and noticed she was doing the same thing he was doing. He felt his cheeks flush as he tried to figure out what had just happened. "Hold on, Alfred. Why does she need to apologize?"

Alfred turned around. "Duh. I just said why: She disrupted the World Conference by knocking out France. Why did you do that anyway, Sis?"

"Why don't you let me handle that question, and you go and tell the others that we'll be right there?" Arthur suggested. "I am the host of this Conference, after all."

Alfred shrugged. "Sure. Be my guest," he said, releasing Amelia's hand and heading out the door without them.

She watched her brother leave but didn't turn around to face Arthur.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Why did you knock out the wine bastard?" Arthur asked.

"The Frenchie copped a feel," she said matter-of-factually, looking over her shoulder at him.

"What? !" Arthur said.

"Yeah. I was leaning forward to grab the tea tray so I could refill it like he'd asked me to, and he groped my behind," she stated, leaning over to demonstrate. Arthur could see some of her petticoat underneath as the skirt on the maid's uniform draped seductively over her hips.

"You don't need to show me!" he said, his face growing hot. "Are you sure it was intentional?"

Amelia straightened and turned to face him. "I think I can tell the difference between an accidental touch and a full-on fondle. This involved rubbing and squeezing."

"That bloody wanking Frog!" Arthur yelled.

China peeked in the open doorway. "England, why are you shouting like that, ahen?"

"I'll tell all of you in a couple of minutes," Arthur said. "I need to check on that tosser after I finish up with my employee here."

Amelia choked on a laugh, and he shushed her.

"We're all almost gathered back in the conference room, ahen," China said. "I'll tell them you've gone to check on France. Don't take too long." He turned and headed for the conference room.

"I'm sorry," Amelia said, giggling. "It's just when I think of France lying on the floor, I keep seeing his expression after I clobbered him, and I can't help laughing. I'm glad I didn't kill him; I can't control my strength when I'm angry. I really am sorry I hurt him though. "

"I'm not sorry," Arthur said. He clapped a hand over his mouth. _Did I just say that out loud?_ He choked on a laugh, and Amelia covered her mouth as she tried to keep from following his lead and failed.

"We shouldn't be laughing," she said, giggling. "What if he has brain damage from the hit I gave him?"

"Don't worry about it," Arthur said, choking back his laughter. "No one will able to tell the difference." Both of them burst into laughter at this comment and continued to laugh until their chuckles trickled to a few giggles.

"Oh man. My stomach hurts," Amelia said breathlessly as she plopped into one of the chairs.

Arthur let out a satisfied sigh. "Well, I'd better go check on the plonker," he said, wiping his eyes as he headed for the door.

Amelia grabbed his hand as he walked by, and it tingled at the contact. She stood and hugged him from behind. "Arthur, I . . . I need to tell you something," she said, her voice quivering slightly.

Arthur touched the slender arms encircling him. He felt an urge to turn around and embrace her until they melted together, but he hesitated. He had other demands on his time even though he wanted to hear what she had to say. _The others are probably wondering what's taking so long_. "Can it wait until I take care of things?" he asked, his voice cracking.

She released him, and he turned to look at her. Her eyes studied him for a moment, and she sighed, looking defeated. "Sure," she said, shrugging. "I've waited since 1944 to tell you that I love you, what's a few more hours?"

Arthur nodded and headed out the door. He strode briskly down the hallway toward the infirmary. He slowed down when what Amelia had said finally sunk in. He stopped in front of the infirmary doors. _Wait . . . did she just say she . . ._ Arthur thought, his mind reeling. He turned around and hurried back to the library.

When he arrived, he found it empty. He spun around and looked both ways down the hallway. _Would she go to the conference room or the kitchen with the rest of the staff? _he wondered, vacillating which way he should go. His heart pounded as he tried to make up his mind.

"I'm glad I found you, sir," Mary, the other "maid", said as she came running up to him. "Miss Clark asked me to give you a message. She said, 'I'll know you can handle everything just fine without me. I'll return the uniform later. Tell Al I'll apologize if they think I need to, but don't tell him what happened with Francis.'"

"Where did Am—Emily go?" he asked her, feeling a sense of urgency for the answer.

Mary pointed down the hallway in the direction of the entrance to the building. "Strangest thing, sir, she grabbed her clothes and purse and left the building just a couple of minutes ago," she said. "Why wouldn't she have time to change here? What's her rush?"

"Bollocks!" Arthur said as he hurried in the direction she had pointed. He arrived at the entrance to the building just in time to see Amelia in a cab as it pulled away.

Arthur marched back into the conference room, past all the other nations who, since the meeting hadn't started yet, were still chatting and visiting, and straight up to Alfred who was by the smaller "left-overs" table, chowing down on a scone. "Give me Amelia's cell phone number, Al," Arthur demanded.

* * *

**A/N**

***_My Fair Lady_ is a movie inspired by _Pygmalion: A Romance in Five Acts, _written by Irish playwright George Bernard Shaw (in 1912). So _My Fair Lady_ in reverse would be going from being able to speak with a perfect English accent and diction to something less-than-perfect (going back to her American accent is enough ^_^ in Arthur's opinion)**

**. . .**

**So how did I do? Did it work? Did the two chapters (7 & 15) flow naturally together? (not that I'm saying I want to eliminate the chapters in between; they're important to the plot). I hope they did, seeing as it's been a while since the main plot-line has been the focus.**

**I really enjoyed the sub-plot but it's nice to be back on the main plot. The part that was the most fun to write in this chapter was Alfred acting as an unintentional matchmaker. LOL ^_^**

**Um . . . I have nothing more to say, so**

**Translations:**

**мое восхитительное, небольшая темноволосая лисица = my adorable, little dark-haired vixen**

**мало подсолнечника = little sunflower**

**Где Вы были, любимая? = Where have you been, darling?**

**Ваш Иван был настолько одинок с 1982 = Your Ivan has been so lonely since 1982**

**Не называйте вашего Ивана странным = Do not call your Ivan strange**

**Я никогда не встречал другую женщину столь же сильную как Вы = I've never met another woman as strong as you.**

**Вы должны мне так очень по крайней мере = You owe me that much, at least.**

**Eble**** vi ****kompreni**** nun? = Perhaps you understand now? ****[That's right people; It's Esperanto {which my head-canon dictates is the nations' native language} Russia's testing her a lot, isn't he? . . .hmm, question is, though, why does he think she'll understand?...hmm, curious notion he's got there ;)]**

**Estas kio li diris vera? = Is what he said true? [more Esperanto]**

**Gah. That's all the foreign language I hope I'll have to use for a while. I'm exhausted. =_= To make sure it's the best translation, I actually use three different translation machines, and finding an accurate Esperanto one was really, _really_ hard to find.**

Omake

France: *comes to in the infirmary and glances over at a nurse whose back is turned to him* Hon-hon-hon *gropes her*

Nurse: *whips around and hits him with a medicine tray* Bloody pervert!

Doctor: *runs in after hearing the "Gong" from the tray, sees the scene, and face-palms* Nurse, order a MRI for this gentleman...I think he's going to need one.

Please note MRIs are often used to detect brain damage (and are sometimes more effective than CAT scans).


	16. You Shouldn't Ask the Potato Bros 4 Help

**This is an explanation chapter to let my readers know why I hadn't written in a long, long time. But that's no longer the case! . . . Keep moving! **

**CHAPTER 16 IS THE NEXT CHAPTER! KEEP GOING!  
**

**. . . . .  
**

**You're still here? Chapter 16 and 17 are up already. Go read them. *waves hand to shoo readers away* Go. **

***walks away*  
**

** . . . . . .  
**

**(yes, it's a _Ferris Bueller's Day Off_ reference)  
**

* * *

**(I won't stop you if you want to read this one, though. I only left it here so my readers could review the real Ch. 16 (labelled as Ch. 17 now) if they wanted to; didn't realize that's what happens when you delete a chapter that's already been reviewed...which is why I warned and still warn against reviewing this "explanation chapter")**

* * *

**Why You Probably Shouldn't Ask the Potato Brothers for Help with Work**

Gilbert yawned. _What is taking the meeting so long to finish?_ he wondered. Randomly choosing a room to go nap in, he opened the door nearest to him. A mountain of papers occupied the middle of the room; two feet poked out from under the pile. _Hmm? What's that? _Gilbert thought. He yanked on the feet and dragged out a tired-looking author.

The author moaned. "Thanks Prussia."

"Kesesesese. I wondered vhere you'd been, PT!" Gilbert said. "Vell, you can pay me back for rescuing you by writing the awesome me into more of your chapters. And call me Gilbert."

PoisonousTiger (who also went by PT) sat up. "Um . . . How about I maybe give you a one-shot later perhaps?"

Gilbert shrugged. "Vorks for me. So vhat's going on with you and your fanfics?" he asked. "You usually update one of your stories every month at least, and lately the only activity I've seen is you posting on forums or replying to your story reviews, and you aren't even doing that very much. So did you get bored vith the stories and abandon them?

"No. I didn't." PT held up a worn 5-subject notebook full of inky cursive. "I've got the rough drafts right here."

Gilbert grabbed notebook and started flipping through it. He skimmed a page labeled _Ch. XVI._

PT reached out for the notebook. "Ah wait a minute, don't—"

"Good grief . . . vhat's vith this mess?" he said, pointing at the first pages of Chapter 16 for "Sunshine and Rain".

"Huh?"

"First you have England go back to his home vith the North American brothers," he said, "and then you crossed most of it out, and you have him leave them and go on ahead to catch Amelia, and then you have him go home with them and chase her to the grocery store? This is a freakin' mess. How can you tell what's what?"

PT looked sheepish. "Well that's the 1st draft you're looking at. After a reader left a review encouraging Arthur to chase after Amelia, I decided I liked that idea and wrote a couple more drafts...sorta."

Gilbert flipped through the pages "That vould explain all the scribbled out stuff and notations..." he stopped at one page, his eyes grew mischievous. "So England and her back in 1944 actually met and they—"

"Shhhhh! That's a spoiler!" PT interrupted.

He scanned the pages after that page and blushed bright red. "Vell this is kinda interesting. Might even get some readers hearts pounding vhen—"

PT held her finger up to her mouth. "Shhhhh! Spoiler!"

Gilbert shut the notebook and smirked. "Vith fun stuff like this to write, you'd think you'd be typing it up like crazy. So vhat's taking so long?"

PT looked sheepish. "Ummm well . . . you see, after my last update in the summer of 2011, I got a boyfriend and my twitterpation distracted me for the 3 months we dated. I'm an English professor and as soon as Fall Semester came, we didn't see each other as often as we were able to during the summer break. He found someone else and dumped me. I was depressed for months after that and that made Fall Semester 2011 the hardest class to teach and grade that I've ever had . . . I was depressed and didn't realize it and that made work difficult. Winter and Spring Semesters are back-to-back with only a week in between semesters. I'm in the middle of Spring Semester with all that to grade," PT pointed at a pile of papers that looked as thick as a ream of paper and sighed, "and I'll have even more when they finish their final essay in a week. So you see all my free time is gone. I haven't had a chance to type up my rough drafts."

Gilbert scoffed and pointed at PT's computer screen still on the last webpage she'd been on. "I don't think it's only work that's been taking up your time. You've been spending a lot your free time on Deviantart and Facebook and pivix."

"I can't help myself. I recently discovered them, and I didn't realize how much fun they'd be to use," PT groaned. "And pivix is more devious than Deviantart! Instead of posting 100+ deviations in your message box, it actually will search out pictures with the same 'tags' as the one you just favorited. I couldn't seem to stop . . ." ThePoisonousTiger trailed off when she saw Gilbert's skeptical expression.

"Vhile I understand your pain and the awesomeness of the internet, that's no excuse! You've let yourself get distracted from writing more awesome chapters vith me in them," Gilbert said as he started closing the website tabs. "All right. You're not allowed to go on any of those sites until you finish your 'schoolwork', and after that, you have to get these rough drafts typed up."

PT pouted. "But my emails."

Gilbert sighed. "Fine. You get 1/2 an hour per day to answer emails, vhich includes reviews from previous chapters. Now post this story to explain the plan."

"Wait. If I post this, then how will my readers know when I'm done with the next chapter?" PT asked.

He smiled. "If your readers really love your work, they'll forgive you for the explanation chapter and wait. When you post the next chapter, just let people know this isn't a real chapter at the top of the page and direct them onto the next one. So vhen can ve expect progress?"

PT took a moment to think about the question. "I think I can get my grading finished in the next 2 weeks, so I should have the next chapter ready . . . soon? Maybe? I really don't know. It all depends on how fast I get done with this work. Shouldn't be too hard as long as I don't get distracted again."

Gilbert smiled wickedly. "Oh I think ve can help you vith that," he said.

PT sweated slightly. "We?"

Gilbert smiled and snapped his fingers. The door to the room opened, and Ludwig walked into the room holding a rider's crop, which he tapped lightly in the palm of his other gloved hand.

PT looked back and forth between the Potato Brothers nervously. "Um why is Ludwig here? And why does he have a rider's crop?"

"This? It's a family heirloom*," Ludwig said as he sent PT a smile that made a shiver run down her spine. "So tell me PT: Did I ever tell you about the time I punished a distracted writer using only a toothpick and her own sock?"

"Okay okay!" PT cried out, grabbing the top essay from the pile. "I'm grading! I'm grading! I'll start writing right after I finish!" She stopped for a moment to break the fourth wall. "Hey readers! **Don't review this chapter. It's not a real chapter! If you want to comment on this "story" send me a PM instead. **I will answer any PM's you send me about it, and I'll answer reviews for previous chapters. Thanks in advance for your patience while I get caught up on my work and writing! Look forward to the next chapter few weeks (hopefully)."

PT picked up an essay to grade and sighed. "Also please forgive me for this 'chapter'. I'm sure it's not what you were looking for when you clicked on the story or the email link. But I wanted to let you know why I hadn't updated in a while and this was the only way I could see as a loophole around the 'no A/N chapters or script-style dialog stories or anything like it' rule. It took me about 1/2 hour to write; I hope it was fun to read and you don't feel like you wasted your time. I swore I'd never do one of these, but now I understand what my grandma used to say about 'never say never'."

Germany tapped his riding crop on PT's shoulder and glared at her.

"Okay Okay!" she yelled as she started grading the essay.

* * *

**A/N**

******-_-;; Okay . . . I'm sorry it took so long to continue this story . . . really I am! I'm glad that you are still interested. T~T I promise not to let myself get that distracted again, no matter what happens—no boyfriend, work, or anything will derail me that badly again; I promise I'll prioritize better.**

_Please note_: I'm not telling you all this for sympathy (although I do appreciate it), but to explain what happened and to reassure you that I'm not giving up on either of my stories. I'll finish them both!

**Part of my emails that I can answer includes posts to my Hetalia World Academy RP forum. Come play with me! If you want to RP as certain characters, just check out the Rosters and vote on some names for the nations that don't have human names, and you can pick any character you want from those (that haven't been taken of course) and let me know about it. I look forward to playing with you. ^_^**

***See Arkham-Insanity's "Before Awesome" on DeviantArt for the history and how a riding crop can become a "family heirloom" ;)**


	17. Old Jokes, Photos, Memories, & Chocolate

**Ch. 16: Old Jokes, New Friends, Photos, Memories, and a Chocolate Bar**

Alfred blinked, a scone hanging from his mouth. He glanced around the room to see if anyone else was listening. Most of the other nations appeared to be still chatting away, waiting for the meeting to be called to order. "Fhy who ewyou fwant der mumber?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "How many times have I told you not to talk with your mouth full?"

Alfred removed the scone. "Why do you want Amelia's nu—" Suddenly his eyes got wide, and Arthur noticed that the other nation's face went a little pale.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. _What the bloody hell?_

Alfred recovered quickly and smirked at him. "Why do you want my hairstylist's number?" He glanced over Arthur's shoulder and smoothed a hand through his hair. "Are you finally going to do something about that mop on your head?"

"A~heh."

Arthur's blood ran cold and his mouth went dry. He recognized that laugh. He glanced over his shoulder and watched Russia smile and take a sip from the coffee he had poured.

Russia set down his cup on a saucer he held in his hand. "Good zinger, capitalist pi—er, America."

Alfred gave him smile. "Thanks Ruskie. Artie just walked right into that one."

Russia laughed again. "Da, he certainly did. So who is this Amelia, America? I don't recognize that name from your tabloid fashion news that comes sometimes to Europe."

A shiver ran up Arthur's spine at the larger nation's smile, but he managed to keep a straight face. "She's new, which is why he hasn't changed his 'idiot look'. I was actually going to give her some tips on how to style him."

Russia smiled, picked up his cup, and took another sip. "Not as good of a zinger, England . . . keep trying." He walked over to where Canada was sitting and smiled at him. The poor nation shivered as Russia sat down in the chair next to him, and Canada looked, for once, as though he _wanted_ to disappear.

Alfred leaned in closer to Arthur. "What the hell?" he hissed. "Don't go yelling her name for everyone to hear. I can't believe that you call yourself so smart and then forget to use her fake name."

Arthur felt defensive only for a moment; he knew the younger nation was right. "I was in a hurry. I think she's running back to the States."

Alfred blinked and straightened up for a moment. Then he leaned back in and narrowed his eyes. "Why? What happened after I left you two together?"

Arthur gulped and wondered how to explain everything that had transpired.

"Did you swear at her like you used to when I was younger and you got really mad?" Alfred quietly suggested.

Arthur became giddy with relief at Alfred's assumption. _I suppose that would be the most logical conclusion. He hasn't seen all the things that have gone on between us._ His face got hot when he thought about everything that _**had**_ happened.

"Chillax, Artie," Alfred whispered, suddenly pulling him out of his thoughts.

Arthur looked at the younger nation and found himself face-to-screen with Alfred's cell phone. It had a text message reading, "Going grocery shopping for dinner tonight . . . wanted to get started before the meeting ended."

"See? She's not going home. You overreacted," Alfred said quietly. He put away his phone, loaded the last of the mochachino scones on a plate, and patted Arthur on the back. "Now, let's get this meeting over with so we can go eat."

Arthur nodded. "Right. Of course."

"Did you find out how France is doing?" a female voice said off to his right. Arthur jumped and looked at the owner.

Hungary folded her arms. "We all were waiting to hear."

Arthur glanced around and saw that most of the nations were now looking at the two of them. "About that. Something urgent came up, and I had to resolve it immediately. I'll go check on him now." He turned to the rest of the nations. "I'll only be a few moments; sorry about the delay."

"I'll come with you," Hungary said, smiling and falling in step with him as he headed for the door.

Arthur saw no reason to stop her. He was a bit preoccupied with wanting to discuss with Amelia what she had confessed . . . or not confessed.

"I'll text Amelia's number to you," Hungary said as soon as they were a few feet from the conference room door, pulling him out of his thoughts. "But if you want to talk to her, you'd better use my phone. She doesn't accept calls from unknown numbers." She looked at a painting they were walking past as she held out her phone to him.

Arthur stared at the phone.

Hungary looked back at him. "What? You said you wanted to call Amelia right? Al will never give her number to you, not even in a million years."

"How many people heard what I said?" Arthur asked as his stomach clenched with worry.

"I think it was only the nations closest to that side table with the leftover tea stuff." She paused and thought for a moment. "I believe that was Russia, me, Roderich, and Vash. Lovino was shouting so loudly at Antonio I doubt anyone else could hear you and Al."

A wave of relief poured over him.

"Amelia talks about you all the time, so I'm sure she won't mind me giving you her number." She pushed the send button on her phone and handed it to Arthur. "Here." She released her hold on the phone so quickly that he almost dropped it; somehow he managed to put it up to his ear before it finished its second ring. He heard it connect on the other end before the third ring.

"Hey, what's up Lizzy?" Amelia said in a super-cheerful voice.

"Amelia, it's Arthur," he replied. He heard a clattering sound and a "Crap!" on the other end in response.

"Sorry, sorry, dropped the phone," she said when she came back on a few seconds later.

Silence echoed through the phone for a couple seconds.

"Amelia," Arthur said finally, "about what you said—"

"Did you steal Lizzy's phone?"

"What? No. She loaned it to me; she's walking right next to me."

"Oh."

"Now about what you said in the library. Would you—"

"Hmm? Did I say something important to you before I left?" Her voice sounded nonchalant. "I can't remember . . . What did I say that you couldn't wait to have me repeat later?"

"I can't say something that embarrassing in front of Hungary," Arthur said. A wave of heat from embarrassment poured over his head as he glanced over at the nation walking next to him.

Hungary chuckled quietly. "I already know about everything," she whispered.

"Did I say something that embarrassed you? I'm so sorry," Amelia replied. "Al says I do that way too much. It's a bad habit of mine: I just say whatever is on my mind and don't think about other people's reactions or feelings. I've gotten into so many arguments that way."

Arthur opened his mouth to remind her what he thought she'd said, but he couldn't make the words form. _Perhaps I misheard her_. _Maybe she said 'I'd love to tell you later.' Maybe the stress of the day made my mind fantasize what it wanted to hear._ Arthur blinked at that last thought and his cheeks warmed as he started to analyze it.

"Well whatever it was, can it wait until you get back or some other time?" Amelia asked, bringing him out of his spinning thoughts. "I'm almost back at your place, and I need to know if there's a good grocery store nearby. I noticed earlier that you didn't have all the ingredients I need for dinner tonight."

Gratefully, Arthur put aside his confused feelings and thoughts for the moment. "Oh, certainly, I'll give you the address." After giving her directions to his favorite grocer, he couldn't think of anything more to talk about, so he said goodbye, hung up, and handed the phone back to Hungary. "Thank you for the loan, Hungary."

She nodded. "No problem. And call me Elizabeta, okay? All my friends do."

Arthur looked at her. _F-f-friends? _A smile teased his cheeks. "As you wish, Elizabeta." They walked for a couple of moments in silence before Arthur continued, "That reminds me, you and Amelia seem to be really good friends."

"Oh, that," Elizabeta said, waving her hand dismissively. "We met back in 2000 at an anim—um, that is, we met at a convention for people who appreciate Asian artwork, culture, and media." She let out a small laugh and smiled broadly.

Arthur perked up. "Really? You both have the same interest in Asian art? That's how you met? I've seen some of Kiku's work, so I can understand the allure."

"Uh . . . Yeah . . . Exactly!" Elizabeta laughed again and lightly scratched her cheek. "The part that made it most exciting was that it was my first time at a big convention like that as well as my first time in Los Angeles." She clasped her hands together as she continued, her eyes sparkling energetically. "There were so many of the greats at AX that year: Noboru Ishiguro, Rica Fukami, Akira Kamiya, Chiho Saitou, and of course, Yuu Watase*, which was the main reason I was there. I can't remember why Amelia was there. I do remember we met in the Artist Alley, though, and found out we liked the same style of art. We both grabbed the same, um, _illustration_ book at the same time."

She glanced over at Arthur and squinted. "I guess I can see what Amelia sees if I look carefully, but then I'm spoiled because I have Roderich around a lot. _And_ there's the fact that she's the one in love with you, not me."

"Wait. What did you just say?" Arthur asked, turning towards her as a new wave of confusion attacked his senses.

The other nation appeared to still be in her own little revelry. "I mean Saitou-sensei and Watase-sensei draw men so beautifully—" Suddenly, Elizabeta's eyes got wide when his question registered. "Wait. You mean she hasn't told you . . ." She brought her hand to her mouth. "Oh dear. I . . . um . . ." She shrugged, smiled, and then smacked Arthur once the back. "You know what? Forget I said anything just now."

"Impossible. I know what I heard," Arthur stated, pointing at her. "You just said that Amelia's in love with me."

Elizabeta looked sheepish. "Ah nuts. She's going to kill me. She wanted to be the one to confess—"

"I think she already did."

Elizabeta blinked. "Then why were you surprised just now when I told you?"

"Because when I tried to ask her about it on the phone, she acted like she hadn't said anything of the sort," Arthur replied. "As a result, I was confused about what I had heard her say earlier."

Elizabeta shrugged. "That's just Amelia being Amelia. Because of her situation with her brother, she's refined the art of backpedaling and convincing others not to trust their own instincts. For example, you know how you feel when you meet another nation? I felt that instantly when I met Amelia. Regardless of my own instincts, she was so skilled at pretending to be a non-nation human and making me doubt my own senses that I found myself deciding that I just liked her a lot and was confused by that emotion. The game was up, though, when Alfred and Matthew walked up while we were arguing over who made the best pairing in a series we both liked."

She laughed as she remembered the encounter. "They didn't see me until it was too late. She had no way of talking her way out of that. Alfred grabbed Matthew and tried to run and hide, but I'd already seen them, so—"

"They were all right with you two being close then?" Arthur interrupted. His heart skipped a beat at his own question, and it puzzled him as to why the answer was so important to him.

"Yeah. Why wouldn't they be?" Elizabeta raised an eyebrow. "It's not like I was going to tell anyone if the North American siblings didn't want me to, but they couldn't hide the secret after I saw them anyway. It only confirmed my feelings about her being a nation. I kinda forced them to explain things after that."

"I see." Arthur touched his lips as he took in the new information. The touch immediately reminded him of what happened between him and Amelia in the library, and his face grew hot as his lips began to tingle again.

"Then there's that photo I have of Al that lets me get away with _quite_ a bit," Elizabeta said quietly, chuckling to herself.

Arthur looked at her. "Photo?"

Elizabeta let out a little laugh. "Forget it. Not important. Shall we see how France is now?" She pointed at the door to the infirmary. Somehow they had arrived without Arthur realizing it.

When they entered, the nurse guided them over to where France was still unconscious. The doctor entered a few moments later after the nurse had called him in. He looked at France's charts and then at the two nations.

"Once he's conscious, I'd like to give him an MRI. He suffered some more trauma after the initial injury." The doctor glanced back at the charts. "Upon arriving here, he was accidentally dropped on his head by a blond American with glasses whom I assume is an associate of yours and . . ." The doctor glanced over at the nurse and she started at the sudden attention. "Some _other_ events happened resulting in some more blows to the head and a damaged medicine tray." The nurse crimsoned and then left the room.

"An MRI won't be necessary," Arthur said to the doctor. "He sustains injuries like that all the time, which he recovers from quickly and easily."

As if prompted by his words, France opened his eyes and abruptly sat up. Arthur gestured toward him and looked at the doctor as if to say "See?"

France blinked and looked around the room. "Hmm? Why am I in the infirmary?"

"Because you're a pervert," Arthur said with a smirk.**

The doctor walked over to France and examined him with an ophthalmoscope, checking both eyes. After putting his equipment away, he scratched his head and scribbled something down on the chart. "He appears to be miraculously recovered somehow, but I don't want to risk it." He started to write on a small notepad that he had pulled from his pocket. He tore off a slip of paper and handed it to Arthur. "I'd like him to stay in the hospital overnight if possible. With some rest, he'll be out of danger in a couple of days to a week if he's a fast healer."

Arthur took the recommendation slip. "He is. That frog hops back very easily and quickly."

Elizabeta covered her mouth too late to keep a few giggles from leaking out.

"Ah Arthur," France said. "Your confidence in me is heart-warming."

Arthur glared at him. "Shut up! Thanks to you we can't continue the Conference for today."

"Why zanks to me?" France asked, looking sincerely confused. "What have I done zat stopped it?"

Arthur gaped at the nation. _Does he really think he didn't bring on the retaliation from Amelia?_

The doctor held up his hand to get Arthur's attention. "Excuse me, sir. I think can explain what's happened. The patient appears to be suffering from mild amnesia from the event that caused the trauma, which is normal for a concussion."

Arthur sighed. "I suppose we have no choice. Please make the arrangements at the hospital. But make sure he's handled by the toughest orderlies and nurses you've got, or you'll regret it. Also, um, may I borrow some of that paper?" He pointed to the small notepad.

The doctor handed it over, and Arthur sketched a quick drawing of Cuba. "I think it would be wise if they all looked like this as well." He handed the sketch over to the doctor. Elizabeta giggled again.

The doctor examined the sketch and smirked. "I understand sir. I'll make sure to pass this along with your recommendations to the hospital staff."

Arthur nodded and left the infirmary wondering if he should continue the meeting anyway.

"So, what did he do to Amelia anyway?" Elizabeta asked.

Arthur started. He'd completely forgotten she was with him. "Who?"

"France, silly."

"Oh. He touched her on the arse."

"What?! Well then, he got what he deserved."

Arthur noticed her jaw muscles tighten as she narrowed her eyes, which made him a little nervous. "Yes, I suppose he did."

"And here I am without my frying pan," Elizabeta muttered, glaring straight ahead.

Arthur grinned. _I'd pay to see that_.

Elizabeta looked at him. "Are you going to tell everyone?"

"That is the plan."

"Even Alfred?"

Arthur stopped. _Blast it. That will be a problem. If what Amelia told me about Mexico was for a misunderstanding, how will Alfred react when a nation actually does touch her inappropriately?_

Elizabeta stopped and turned around to face him. She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "You could just send him out to get your car or something and then tell him when he's not within striking distance of France."

"That's a brilliant plan," Arthur stated. "He might even get distracted by the 'importance' of the job if I make it a big enough of an errand to do and forget altogether to remind me to tell him why his sister struck the wanking frog."

"Well, you'd better think of one quickly, we're back." Elizabeta put her hand on the conference room door handle and started to open it.

Arthur touched her arm. "Thank you for helping me out."

She turned to look at him. "No prob. I want my friend to be happy." She smiled crookedly and pushed open the door.

His face got hot as he understood the full meaning behind Elizabeta's words. He was forced to wait a couple of moments to cool down before he could enter the room; he didn't want to have to explain his flushed complexion to anyone, especially Alfred.

He walked in and approached the conference room table. _I hope all those acting lessons at The Globe pay off_, he thought as he put on an expression he hoped looked like an epiphany and smacked his fist into his other hand. "Bollocks! I forgot." He turned toward Alfred. "Hey America, could you go to the conference hall manager and set up the conference room reservations for the rest of the week?"

"Dude, why me? Why don't you go?" Alfred asked, sulking in his chair.

"Because I need to finish up here as soon as possible." Arthur furrowed his brow. "I guess I'll have to ask someone else even though you're the only person I could think of who could do it right—"

"Of course I am!" Alfred said, standing up and laughing loudly.

Arthur suppressed his smirk at Alfred's response. _So simple. Just a little flattery and he jumps right into __action._"Thanks Alfred," he replied. "Oh and could you also make sure that my personal physician is led immediately to where you dropped off France? He's coming to take the stupid frog to the hospital."

Alfred flashed a thumbs-up. "Leave it to me! I'll do it super fast and twice as cool as anyone else!"

Arthur could almost hear the other nations in the conference room collectively roll their eyes as Alfred left the room.

"So what'sa this about mi amigo going to the hospital?" Spain asked, looking concerned.

"Yes, well, that has to do with his previous injury in here," Arthur said. "According to my employee, France took liberties and touched her inappropriately."

Spain raised an eyebrow. "I donna believe that. France could have just bumped her with his chair or something and your prudish English maid woulda thought he was—"

"He touched her arse, okay?!" Arthur interrupted.

Several nations gasped; some shook their heads and shrugged while others face-palmed.

"Vith Ivan's and her testimonies, I'd say Francis got vhat vas coming to him, ja?" Germany said. The other nations either groaned or nodded in agreement. Spain looked like he didn't agree but didn't say anything.

"Well then, this building is going to be reserved for the entire week," Arthur said. "Do you want to finish the conference tomorrow or wait until France recovers?"

"Why don't we play it by ear, ahen?" China suggested. "We can tour London tomorrow morning and then meet in the afternoon after we see how he's doing."

"It's not like he contributes much to the discussions anyway, except to make some snide remark," Taiwan chimed in. "I see this as a fortunate turn of events for some of us. I personally wanted to get some shopping done while I was here." Some of the male nations rolled their eyes while Poland and most of the female nations nodded in agreement.

"Are we all in agreement then?" Arthur scanned the room. Most of the other nations either nodded or mumbled an affirmative response. Greece snored. Spain said something too quietly to be heard and Lovino smacked him on the head for it. Russia merely smiled complacently while Belarus glared at Canada who shivered and tried to sink into his chair back's cushion. "Very well. Let's convene for the time being and meet tomorrow afternoon. We'll meet at 2:00 p.m. and have another tea, same chef as today." There was no argument as the other nations got out of their chairs and strolled out of the room, chatting with one another as they left.

Alfred strolled past them as he came back in the room. "What'd I miss Artie?"

"We decided to meet here at 2:00 p.m. tomorrow," Arthur replied, purposely avoiding the other subject discussed.

"So we're done? Cool." Alfred's stomach growled loudly. He grimaced and covered his abdomen. "Good thing too. I was starting to get hungry again."

Arthur smiled._ Good. He's completely forgotten about the whole incident that canceled the meeting in the first place. _His relief was short-lived, however. As soon as the car headed back to the house, Alfred started talking about it.

"D'you think that Ames should apologize?" he asked Arthur after mentioning how silly France had looked on the floor. "I mean, what did he do anyway?"

"That might not be a bad idea, Alfred," Arthur said, deflecting as skillfully as he could manage. "What was her code name again?"

"Emily Clark."

"Right. I forgot."

"Well, you better remember, Artie, since she's posing as your employee, not mine."

Arthur bit his lip. _Bollocks, I forgot that I promised her cooking for the meeting,_ he thought. "Would it be all right to have 'Emily Clark' prepare a tea for us again?" he asked.

"What?! No way! I can't risk another catastrophe like today." Alfred crossed his arms and glared out the window.

Arthur groaned internally. He wasn't sure any of his in-house cooks had any time to learn her recipes. "How about this: she'll make her apology and then I'll quarantine her to the kitchen for the rest of the meeting?"

Alfred pondered this suggestion for a few moments and then nodded. "I think that should be okay. But we need to make sure she understands that she has to stay outta sight and away from the rest of us for the rest of the day."

"She's not a child, Alfred," Arthur said. "She's perfectly capable of understanding how to avoid trouble."

Alfred looked out the window again. "Yeah, I guess." A few seconds of uncomfortable silence filled the car's interior. "You know, I _knew_ something like what happened today was going to happen," Alfred stated indignantly, turning back to look at Arthur, "but you never listen to me. Admit it, dude: I was right."

Arthur smirked internally when he saw the deflection combined with the younger nation's short attention span had worked. "You're right. I'm sorry."

Alfred's eyes got wide. "Dang. I wish I had recorded our conversation just now."

"What? Why?"

"Because you just said I was right _and_ you apologized," Alfred said with a grin.

Arthur scoffed. "Don't hold your breath waiting to get another chance, you prat. It won't happen again."

"We'll see. You're hanging out with our sister now. Sometimes I swear trouble follows her around like a love-sick puppy, huh Matt?" Alfred smacked Matthew on the arm and laughed.

Matthew made an expression that looked like a combination of a grimace and a smile and then rubbed his arm. "She's not _that_ bad."

Alfred smirked. "What about that time she decided she wanted to go ice-skating on _Lake_ Louise in Banff National Park?"

Matthew turned white and cringed. "Y-y-yeah. I still don't understand that. I swear I'd checked the ice on the lake 3 times before she went on it and everywhere I'd checked was thick enough."

Alfred started laughing. "You shoulda been there, Artie. It was hilarious!" he said between laughs. "Only Amelia could manage to find the _one patch_ of thin ice on an _entire lake_."

Matthew nodded grimly. "If you hadn't been nearby, she probably would have drowned. One of us would probably have had to give her CPR instead of just send her to the hotel to change out of her wet clothes. If I remember right, she ended up having to stay inside for the rest of the day to recover from the tiny bit of hypothermia she got."

Alfred stopped laughing instantly and suddenly looked gloomy as he remembered the event a little more clearly.

_So she does give him ulcers, _Arthur noted. A dark cloud seemed to appear over Alfred, and Arthur started to wonder if his previous notion that Canada couldn't bully or sober up America was correct or not.

The car ride became quiet except for the occasional muttering from Alfred: "I knew I shouldn't have brought her here . . . OMG why'd I let her go out shopping alone?! . . . can't afford to pay for any havoc she causes . . . ouch, my stomach . . ."

After several minutes of this, Matthew expression became guiltier by the second until he looked like he couldn't take it anymore. "It was a good thing you were there. You were quite the hero that day. Everyone said so." He patted Alfred on the back.

Alfred blushed slightly. "Y'think so? Well, I only did what an older brother should do for his little sis."

Arthur didn't hear the rest of their conversation as he recalled that his afternoon conversation with Amelia: _You don't have to fill in for him you know . . . You've no obligation to play the 'older brother'. That's Al's job . . ._

"We're here, sir," the driver stated. "Shall I pick you up tomorrow as well?"

Arthur looked up. The two brothers were already walking towards the house. "Oh. Yes. Please come by around 1:00 p.m."

"Very good sir," the driver replied as Arthur got out of the vehicle.

As he walked in the door, Arthur noticed that, except for the brothers' banter, the house, or more specifically the kitchen, was eerily quiet. "Amelia?" he called as he strolled into the darkened room_. _He flicked on the lights and glanced around the empty kitchen. _Oh Bugger__. Did she get lost along the way?_

Matthew and Alfred walked into the kitchen and looked around. Both brothers had performed a quick change from their suits to casual clothes. Arthur stared and wondered how that was even possible.

"Where's Amelia?" Matthew asked finally.

"She must still be at the grocery shop I told her about," Arthur stated. "I suppose I should go help her finish up."

Alfred poked his head out of the snacks cupboard. "Don't take too long, Artie. You're almost out of potato chips. You probably should get some while you're there."

Arthur started at how quickly Alfred had changed his focus. "Stop eating all that junk food! You'll spoil your appet—" He stopped mid-sentence when he realized how ludicrous it sounded.

"Hmm? I'll spoil my what?" Alfred asked through a crisp in his mouth, spitting potato bits everywhere.

Arthur rubbed his forehead. "Forget it. Just go watch something on the telly; I'll be back soon." He watched as Alfred dragged Matthew into the other room. _I'm going to make him pay for every crisp he eats. Those were my favourite._

It only took a couple of minutes after arriving at the grocery shop for Arthur to find Amelia. She heard his footsteps approach, turned to see who it was, and smiled when she saw that it was him.

"You're back already?" she asked. "I guess I took longer than I expected to."

"Actually, knowing how much your brother eats, I thought you might need some help carrying the food back," Arthur said, gesturing at the shopping trolley that was almost full.

Amelia looked at the food and then back up at Arthur. She gave him a soft smile that made his chest tighten, and even though he could tell he was breathing normally, it suddenly seemed like he wasn't. "Thank you. I would love some help carrying it home."

Arthur then remembered that she was America and strong enough to carry three of those trolleys back. His heart palpitated. She didn't need help but she wanted it. That was the same as saying "I want to spend time with you."

Amelia gestured next to the trolley. "I'm almost finished. Would you like to walk with me, or did you have something you needed to get?"

Arthur began to wonder how he avoided whiplash between her flirting and her casual attitude. "No, no. I'll walk with you."

It was then that Arthur noticed she had changed clothes. She was dressed in a blue 1940s vintage-style dress, and her blond hair had been brushed out of the Gibson tuck style from earlier; it fell in large waves, making it look similar to one of the hairstyles worn back in 1944. Amelia picked up a bar of chocolate and smiled while gazing at the sweet. As Arthur watched her, a hazy memory floated to the surface in his mind.

Toward the end of WWII, a messenger had rushed to tell him that the US forces had pulled back. When he had questioned why, the messenger had informed him that America had muttered something about England not giving him any chocolate.

_Well if it's just a matter of a little chocolate_, Arthur had mused. _I suppose I could bring him some as a gift of thanks from one friend to another. After all, he really helped me out during the war when I needed it, even before his people officially joined it._

When he had arrived at America's office with the candy, however, he found himself embarrassed by the whole thing. "H-h-hey America," he stuttered as he entered the room, "about that chocolate you wanted, I—"

"Huh?" Alfred looked up from a bucket overloaded with American chocolate bars. "What about chocolate?"†

Any friendly feelings that had started growing from the earlier request evaporated instantly and completely. Arthur glared at the younger nation.

Alfred looked at the chocolate in Arthur's hand. "Hey, did some girl give you some chocolate too?" He chomped down on a bar. "I didn't think ya had it in you to get a girlfriend. Good job buddy!"

"You're a bloody idiot!" Arthur said. "Don't play with people's feelings!"

Alfred looked shocked. "What? Did she say something to you?" He set down the chocolates and scratched his head. "Look, I'm not playing around with her. I'm completely serious about her. Thing is, though, she doesn't need _all_ this chocolate, and I was just eating the extra that the girls gave me."

Arthur did his best not to throw his chocolate bar at him. "I have no idea what you're talking about. You said you pulled back your troops because I wouldn't give you chocolate."

"Huh? No I didn't." Alfred scratched his head again, then looked like he realized something. "Wait—are you referring to that withdrawal we had to do in Italy?" He rubbed the back of his neck. "Wow. This is embarrassing; I was hoping I'd have thought up a strategy before I had to explain about that. The German army stationed there was a little tougher than we expected, so we ended up needing to regroup and try again." He shrugged. "And since the timing was weird, I decided to have Valentine's Day a little early and then go in for another attack afterward‡."

Arthur stood dumbfounded. Alfred, the self-proclaimed hero, had honestly told him that he had retreated in the same breath that he talked about celebrating a holiday. He didn't know what to say to him after that, so he just turned and walked out of the office.

After walking a short distance away from America's office, he decided to throw away the chocolate bar, even though he'd gone through quite a bit of trouble to get a higher quality one for him. "Insensitive git," he said aloud as he dangled the bar over a trash bin. "Why do I always fall for his tricks?"

"Please wait!"

He turned from the trash bin to see the young woman he had rescued in January running up to him. This time she didn't have a coat covering her uniform. _That's right. This building is also housing the USO__._ She propped herself up on her knees and panted to catch her breath.

"I'm so glad I caught you," she said when she'd finally recovered. "When he told me you were here, I was worried you'd already left before I could talk to you. Do you remember me?"

"How could I forget an American girl who didn't seem to realize there was a war going on?" Arthur teased.

She stood up, looked at the floor, and blushed a little. "Yeah. I guess I'm that way because my brothers wanted to shelter me from how bad it really was, and as a result, I had no idea what to expect when I came here." She looked up and smiled broadly at him. "But I'm still glad you remembered me. I want to thank you again for saving me the other day—"

"It really was nothing," Arthur stated, embarrassed by her words. "I was just in the right place at the right time."

"You say it was nothing, but Al—I mean—_Mr. Jones_ has told me who you were since then, and it _is_ a big deal for you to put yourself at risk like that." She tucked a strand of her blond hair behind her ear. "I want to do something to show my appreciation."

Arthur assumed Alfred had told her the cover story they'd agreed on and not the truth, but his cheeks and face still grew hot for some reason. "It's not necessary to—"

"Oh, it is!" she interrupted. "Believe me. So what I'd like to do is invite you to the Valentine's Dance the USO is having for the troops tonight. We're holding it here, and it's exclusive to American soldiers, but I managed to get you special permission to attend." She held up a slip of paper. "Will you come?"

"I'm not sure. That is, I've got meetings—"

"Oh. I see," she said before he could finish his excuse. "I'm sorry to have bothered you then." She got a "hurt puppy-dog" look on her face and turned to leave.

His heart skipped a beat. "I'll see if I can arrange it so that I'm able to attend," he said, stopping her. He grabbed the paper from her hand and put it in his trousers pocket.

"Really? Thank you!" she said, turning back towards him. "I hope you can come. And don't worry about being on time; I'll wait all night if I have to. Thank you so much! This really means a lot to me."

Arthur was overcome with a new wave of embarrassment. "You're quite welcome, Miss—um—"

"I am so sorry! Where are my manners?" she said. "I never introduced myself, did I?" She thrust her hand at him. "I'm Elizabeth C. Ross, but call me Beth. Elizabeth is what my parents call me, and it would feel weird hearing it from someone my age."

Arthur held back a chuckle. _What is it with Elizabeths insisting on shortening their names?_ He shook her hand. "Nice to meet you, Miss Ross. I'm Arthur Kirkland."

"_Beth_," she said firmly. "You don't need to be so formal with me. Not after saving my life."

"All right. Beth," he said. "Then you should call me Arthur. It would feel awkward having you call me 'Mr. Kirkland' if I'm only calling you Beth."

She laughed and looked shyly at the floor. Arthur noticed he suddenly felt a little drunk and dizzy. _Odd. I haven't had a drop all day, so why—_

"By the way, if you don't want that, could I have it?" She pointed at the chocolate bar still in his hand. "I've heard that English chocolate is delicious, better than any back home in fact."

Arthur let out a small laugh and scratched his head with his free hand as his cheeks warmed at the praise. "It _is_ better, if I do say so myself." He held it out to her.

Her eyes lit up. "Thank you." She reached out to take it and accidentally brushed her fingers against his when she took it from him. "Oh! Sorry." Her cheeks crimsoned, and she looked away from him. "Well, see ya tonight."

She quickly turned and walked a few feet down the hallway before stopping abruptly. She glanced over her shoulder, and when she did, her blue-gray eyes seemed to glow with warmth. "I'm looking forward to the dance. I'll wait for you by the door." With that, she turned and walked down the hallway toward the USO quarters.

Arthur watched her as she turned the corner. He noticed that his head seemed like it was spinning. _What the blazes? I haven't felt like this since that time with__ . . ._ A memory of another Elizabeth—or Bess as she liked to be called—came instantly to his mind, bringing back the image of a lovely young woman with pale skin, an aquiline nose, and long reddish-gold hair. He recalled with vivid clarity that same warm expression in her deep amber-brown eyes all those centuries ago. He clutched his chest as his heart thudded sporadically. "Don't you bloody do this again," he told himself.

He took the dance ticket out of his pocket and stared at it. _I'll go to be polite. I'll dance a couple of dances and then tell her it will be too difficult to meet again, and then make sure I don't ever see her again._ He nodded to himself at this plan. _It's better that I don't muck things up again like I did back then._

Somehow Arthur managed to complete all his work with plenty of time to spare. Alfred had visited the British office a little before Arthur had finished up. The younger nation had stayed for about 30 minutes before leaving, his laughter echoing down the hallways as usual. Oddly enough, Alfred didn't stop by the office to talk to him, not that it would have helped speed things up; a visit would have done the opposite, so Arthur didn't mind that the nation had left without saying anything to him.

After locking up the office, Arthur decided that he wanted to wear his RAF officer's service dress uniform for a change of pace; he had time to make the switch, so he headed home. After checking three times that the uniform looked perfect, he grabbed his uniform cap and placed it on his head as he hurried down the stairs.

As he proceeded towards the door, he glanced at himself in the hall dressing table's mirror and noticed that his hair had gotten messed up so that it stuck out strangely under his cap. He took off the cap and dug through the table's drawers until he found a comb to try and fix the mess his hair had become. Automatically, he tucked the comb in his pocket and noticed he'd forgotten to take the dance invite ticket with him.

Cursing that he was going to be late, he dashed back up the stairs to his bedroom and fumbled through his other uniform's pockets until he found it. As he pulled it out, he noticed Beth had scrawled something on the back of the ticket. _I'll be looking forward to seeing you again_, the cursive letters cooed_. _Arthur's ears and cheeks became hot as he tried to determine if the little curlicue at the end of _again_ was actually in the shape of a heart or if it was just his own desire to see a heart.

_It's better to not make __**any**__ speculations_, he told himself, laughing at his silly imagination as he headed out the door, replacing his cap on the way out. _Just because you haven't really celebrated a St. Valentine's Day properly in almost 400 years doesn't mean that you should let yourself get dotty all of a sudden. _

He could tell when he arrived that the dance had already started because music could be heard playing inside the building. He saw Beth waiting by the entrance wearing a figure-flattering red dress, elbow-length black gloves, and a black wrap draped loosely around her shoulders and arms. Her hair flowed in soft golden curls past her shoulders. She was wearing a gold locket and earrings that picked up any ambient light and gleamed into the night. Even in the dim light leaking out of the building, he could see that her cheeks and nose were pink from the cold air.

It was then Arthur remembered that she had said "I'll wait all night if I have to." _Good grief. I didn't think she'd actually wait outside the door_, he thought, guilty that she'd braved the chill of the February night for him.

As soon as she saw Arthur, she smiled tenderly. "Wow. You look fantastic," she said as she walked over to him and wrapped her arms around his arm. Surprised by this unexpected closeness, Arthur looked at her, his eyes wide.

Noticing his expression, she immediately pulled away from him. "Sorry . . ."

Arthur grabbed her hands and put them back on his arm. "No need to apologize; you did ask me to escort you, did you not?"

Beth nodded as they walked into the makeshift "dance hall" the USO had put together; paper streamers and other decorations hung from the wall. They weren't fancy, but in the dim light, it really wasn't that noticeable. As he helped her out of her wrap, she looked over her shoulder and smiled at him as she thanked him.

Arthur returned a slight smile, then looked away when his heart pounded nervously at her smile. _Don't let yourself get carried away__, _he reminded himself.

After a few dances together, an airman asked Beth if she'd like to dance the next with him. "Sorry, Jimmy. My dance card is full," she said, holding up the wrist that had the dance card attached to it. The airman frowned and walked away.

"Full?" Arthur asked, confused. He gently grabbed her wrist and pushed opened the card to examine the names on the card. "Did you have partners ask you before I arrived? Because I didn't see anyone—" He stared at the card, stunned. Every line was filled in with "Arthur Kirkland".

Beth jerked the card away from him, leaving him to stare at empty space. "Wow. Is it warm in here or is it just me?"

Arthur looked at her. Even in the subdued lighting of the dance hall, he could see her face had crimsoned. She pulled away from him, walked toward a balcony doorway, opened it and walked out.

After a couple of moments, Arthur walked over to the doorway and out onto the balcony. Beth was standing at the balcony railing, breathing wispy clouds of white into the darkness.

"Beth," he called.

She glanced over her shoulder and then looked back into the night sky. Arthur walked over to her. She glanced at him again out of the corner of her eye, but refused to turn towards him. Her cheeks were still flushed, but he couldn't tell if that was from the cold or from previously.

After a moment, she looked down at the railing. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

She turned towards Arthur, her eyes edged with tears. "You know . . ." she gestured at the dance card still hanging from her wrist.

"Well, I'm not angry so why are you apologizing?" Arthur asked. "I'm just confused why you wrote—"

"You're confused?" she interrupted. "You mean you don't—" She closed her eyes, and the tears trailed down her cheeks. "I'm such an _idiot! _Why did I listen to those girls?" she said quietly, wiping her eyes. She let out a sound of frustration. "Why'd I let them write your name on _every_ line?

"Did you reserve your whole card for me because I saved your life?"

Beth drew in a deep breath and looked at Arthur. The look in her eyes made him gasp; for a fraction of a second, he thought again of the other Elizabeth he knew all those years ago.

"No," she said, "I wasn't just trying to pay you back for that. I-I-I am grateful, but that's not why—Oh, hang it!"

Arthur had left the balcony door slightly ajar and the music from the dance filtered out to where they were standing. Frustrated that she wasn't being clear, Arthur mulled over the reasons he knew of as to why a girl would do what she had done. His breathing got rapid as a reason that should have been obvious came into his mind.

His heartbeat matched his breathing, and he found himself dizzy and drunk again. He looked at her and his heart ached. "You're not an idiot," he said. "I am for not noticing . . . what I was feeling, what you were feeling."

He hesitated for moment, going over in his mind the past outcomes that had happened with the other Elizabeth for what he was about to do. He sighed. _Blast the consequences_, he thought before taking her by hand and pulling her in close to him.

Beth offered no resistance to Arthur's advances; in fact, she seemed delighted by them. Encouraged by this reaction, Arthur placed a hand in the small of her back and got into the correct position as he slowly, deliberately, began to dance with her. Beth's cheeks colored, and she followed his lead. They danced for a couple of minutes not saying anything. As if in a daze, he slowly pulled her closer until they were dancing cheek-to-cheek. Suddenly their pacing no longer matched the tempo of the music; they followed their own rhythm, dancing so slowly it seemed like they were floating on a drifting cloud.

When the music ended, Arthur noticed that, without thinking, he'd drawn her so close to him that there was no space in between them, and she had closed her eyes and rested her head on his shoulder. She shivered, and he became aware of the freezing night air. He moved away slightly, unbuttoned his uniform jacket, and in a fluid motion, removed it and draped it around her shoulders.

She grabbed the lapels and pulled the jacket closed. "Thanks." She let out a small laugh. "I guess we didn't notice the cold, huh?"

Without hesitating or thinking about it, Arthur found himself reaching out and bear-hugging her to pull her close again. "No. We didn't," he said as his heart thumped erratically in his chest. She let go of the jacket's lapels and wrapped her arms around him, laying her head against his shoulder. She let out a soft, contented sigh.

He looked up at the stars and sighed. _It's not fair to do this to her_. "Beth, I've enjoyed this evening, really I have, but—"

Beth reached up and put her fingertip on his lips, stopping him. "Before you say what I think you're going to say, I need to tell you something first." She lifted her head from his shoulder and then looked for a moment as if she was trying to decide something. She nodded slightly and then looked at him. "Arthur, I haven't been 100% honest with you. You see, I'm not who, or what, you think I am. I'm a—"

"Beth! There you are," someone called in a stern and impatient tone. They both looked over to where the voice had come from: Alfred stood in the balcony doorway. Beth drew in a sharp breath. Alfred walked over to them and grabbed her arm, pulling her out of Arthur's embrace. "If you're cold, don't use Artie to warm you up. He won't be able to do the job right." Arthur shivered from the cold gaze he was getting from Alfred.

"Al—what are you doing?" Beth asked, trying to pull out of his grip. "Let go! You're hurting me."

"I need to talk to you _right now_," Alfred said. He looked over at Arthur. "You don't mind if I cut in, do ya, Artie?"

"As a matter of fact, I do—"

Alfred didn't even wait for Arthur to finish. "Come on, Beth." He half-led, half-dragged her back into the dance hall. Arthur started to follow them when he heard something "clink" under his foot. He looked down to where the sound had originated. Beth's locket lay in a golden heap on the balcony floor. He scooped it up and walked into the dance hall.

When he got back inside, he searched the crowded room but couldn't see Alfred or Beth anywhere. He glanced down at the locket in his hand and, out of curiosity, opened it. Beth and Alfred smiled up at him from a photo inside, affectionately embracing each other and smiling. They looked comfortable and natural in each other's arms as if they'd been close for years. An ache formed in his chest.

"Hey Artie! Here!" Alfred said, throwing Arthur's uniform jacket at him. Arthur quickly hid the locket in his trousers pocket and caught his jacket almost in the same motion.

He noticed Alfred was alone and glanced around the room again. "Where's B—"

"Beth had to leave," Alfred chimed in. "I've been trying to arrange for her to go back home for weeks now, and a transport finally became available. She had to leave right away or miss it and have to wait while we finish that new assault we're going to do in a few days."

Arthur put on his jacket and slid his hand into his pocket, clutching the locket in his palm. "What is she to you?"

"Y'mean what's our relationship?" Alfred asked. "Hmm. How should I put it?" He clicked his tongue and thought for a moment. "I'm just gonna say that I've been with her a long time. We're close. Real close. Closer than you've ever been with anyone as far as I know."

Arthur's hand trembled around the locket. "I see." _So that's how it was. But then why did she flirt with me? Why did she act like she . . ._"Will the transport get her safely back?"

"I hope so. I don't know what I'd do if I lost her," Alfred said. He looked at Arthur. "She's really important to me."

Arthur glanced around the room; the locket in his hand felt like it weighed a ton. "So you're _that_ serious about her?"

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean by 'that serious'?"

"Well, you've talked to her about marriage right? It's a fact most non-nation women dream of marrying the person they love," Arthur clarified.

He recalled amber brown eyes filled with tears so many years ago. _Arthur, must I seal up my heart? Can I not have some happiness for myself? They will not let me marry the man I love. Oh Robin, Robin . . . Arthur, what am I to do?_ He had embraced her, not knowing what to say. Even though it was so long ago, he recalled the pangs of jealousy he had experienced back then; they had dulled, but the memory still hurt.

"I can't marry Beth! She's my—um . . ." Alfred brought a finger to his lips as if he was trying to figure out what to call her.

Arthur tightened his grip on the locket until it dug painfully into his hand. He wanted to punch the younger nation for being insensitive towards Beth but held back since it would cause a scene. "Even if many of us consider it unwise for nations to marry non-nation humans," he stated, "that doesn't mean that we **can't** or **don't**."

"Wait. You were serious? Me? Marry _her_? Ha! That's hilarious!" Alfred said. "Listen, Artie, I don't see that happening."

Arthur stared at the younger nation. _Is this whole affair a joke to him?_

_Arthur, I have just thought of an excellent joke!_ Bess had been twirling a strand of hair around her slender finger while lounging and reading a book that her father and his former boss, Henry VIII, had given her as a birthday gift when she had suddenly sat up and clasped his hand, giving him the smile that had made Arthur's heart flutter many times. _Thou __**art**__ my husband. My coronation ring symbolizes as much. And here's the comical part: As my consort, thy name is King Arthur! Ha ha! Do I make a lovely Guinevere? . . . Oh dear . . . Was it not amusing? Thou didst not laugh . . ._

Arthur glared at Alfred. "Well, you can't just string her along forever. That's . . . that's just too cruel."

As those words left his mouth, he recalled older golden brown eyes that had flashed defiantly, but still proudly, as she smacked his hand away. _Do not be a sentimental fool._ _Love thee? Thou art acting absurd. I told thee from the start this whole façade was a way for me to avoid the marriage question. I am sorry if thou thoughtest there was more to it than mere dalliances . . . oh, don't look so sad Poppet . . . I will forgive thee for thy behavior, Arthur, if thou wilt forgive me for mine?_

"Don't worry. We have an understanding," Alfred said, scanning the dance floor, "and if you're worried about her telling anyone about us, don't."

"Wait. Does she know—?"

"—about us being nations? Of course she does," Alfred answered. He gave Arthur a thumbs-up. "Like I said, don't worry. She won't tell anyone."

Red hair and confident deep amber brown eyes suddenly flashed through Arthur's mind. _I have already joined myself in marriage to a husband, namely the kingdom of England._

"Don't be too confident, Alfred. Sometimes they tell," he said as he put a hand on Alfred's shoulder and gave it a couple of pats. "I know from experience."

"Yeah, well, Beth won't. Trust me," Alfred said with a wink.

Arthur removed his hand and put it back in his pocket, playing with Beth's locket by turning it over a couple of times in his hand. _Perhaps I should return this to him so that he can get it back to her; after all, she'll probably want her reminder of the young man she cares about._"Hey Alfred, Beth dropped—"

"Alfred-honey, you said you'd dance with me next," an American woman with auburn hair and a Southern drawl said as she walked up to the pair. "Also, some of the girls want to know where you were taking Beth just now."

Arthur stared at the woman, dumbfounded.

"Don't worry about it, Lily. Just tell 'em Beth suddenly needed to go home," Alfred told her as he searched the dance floor. "I'll join you as soon as I tell my date these dances with you gals are just friendly dances."

"Whatever, sugar," Lily said. "Just don't keep me waitin'; you owe me for that chocolate." The redhead then walked back into the dancing crowd.

"What kind of relationship do you and Beth have?!" Arthur asked, fuming at the other nation.

Alfred turned back to him and smirked. "An open one," he said as he started walk back onto the dance floor.

"You idiotic berk!" Arthur shouted at Alfred as he stormed out of the dance hall, leaving several people to murmur about his outburst. As he left the building, he thought he saw Beth in a vehicle heading for the airfield. He considered calling out to her, but the automobile disappeared from sight before he had a chance to. _Damn it! _he thought, kicking a rock across the street in frustration. Since he had nothing else to do that evening, he headed home.

When Arthur arrived at his house, he found some satisfaction in slamming the door and storming up to his bedroom, but that gratification didn't last long. Sighing, he tossed his RAF cap onto the bed before unbuttoning and removing his jacket. A delicate scent wafted off of it. He paused. _Roses?_ He embraced the jacket, bringing it to his face, drinking in the memories of the evening. _No, maybe . . . vanilla? Or is it a little of both?_ He relished in the memory of the way Beth felt in his arms—her softness, her voice, her figure, her hair against his cheek. _That idiot doesn't realize what he has, _he thought, letting out another sigh_._

Arthur lowered the jacket. He remembered that Beth had been trying to tell him something before Alfred had interrupted them, but he'd been too distracted by her lips to really concentrate on what she was saying. _I wonder what she was going to tell me__._

He reached in his pocket and pulled out Beth's locket, staring at it for a couple of moments before opening it and looking at the photo inside. He closed the locket and slipped it back into his pocket, turning it over and over in his hand as he walked over to his closet. After hanging up his jacket and loosening his tie, he pulled the locket out and opened it again. He stared at the photo and smiled as he caressed the image of Beth with his forefinger. He let out another sigh, shook his head, and closed the locket again.

Clutching the piece of jewelry, he turned out all the lights, walked over to his bedroom window, pulled aside the blackout curtains, and opened the lower sash. He glanced down at the locket; it gleamed in the waning moon's light.

Arthur sighed gloomily. The locket seemed heavy in his hand—as heavy as his heart was. He closed his fingers around the memento and glanced out at the darkness that filled his garden and the London streets. He drew back his closed fist, preparing to throw its contents out the window, and then found that he couldn't force his muscles to move the way they should. He lowered his hand and sighed again, resigned to the dictates of the organ thumping painfully in his chest. Walking over to his bedroom writing desk, he opened one of the little drawers and slipped the locket inside it.

He then stared at the only reminder he had of Beth for what seemed like an eternity. Then he sighed one last time. _How ironic. __**You're**__ the real idiot_, he told himself, closing the drawer.

* * *

**A/N**

**-_-;; Okay . . . I'm sorry it took so long to continue this story . . . really I am! There seemed to be a million things keeping me from writing. After I wrote that "explanation chapter", I got a boyfriend and got completely distracted. I really thought I was going to marry this guy and then 3 months later, he suddenly broke up with me, which put me into a month-long mini-depression-tailspin (writing a romantic comedy was just too difficult at that point). After I saw him with his new girlfriend, I decided to stop the pain and get over him. I found a great break up book (you can ask me about it if you're interested, but I'll give you the quote that helped me the most to get over him: "anyone who assesses you or your relationship as disposable is not worthy of your time or tears") . I had to finish teaching my classes and get through finals, and then I had a busy 2-week break in between semesters (my younger sister had her baby, and my life was filled with tons of distractions). Then the new semester bogged me down before I had a chance to recover from the holidays.**

**I hope you aren't disappointed with this chapter. ;p I am grateful you're still interested. T~T I promise not to let myself get that distracted again, no matter what happens—no boyfriend, work, or anything will derail me that badly again; I promise I'll prioritize better.**

_**Please note**__**: **_**I'm not telling you all this for sympathy (although I do appreciate it), but to explain what happened and to reassure you that I'm not giving up on either of my stories. I'll finish them both!**

***In case you didn't know who all those people Hungary named were:**

**Noboru Ishiguro -Director over Astroboy, Gatchaman, Lupin the 3rd along with many other titles and storyboard artist for many of them as well**

**Rica Fukami-best known for her role as Sailor Venus/Minako Aino  
Akira Kamiya -best known for his roles as Shutaro Mendou (from Urusei Yatsura), Mitaka Shun (from Maison Ikkoku), Ryo Saeba (from City Hunter) and later Kogoro Mori (from Detective Conan/Case Closed), just to name a few.**

**Chiho Saitouof Revolutionary Girl Utena, Kanon, The World Exists for Me fame (to name a few of the many titles she's done)**

**Yuu Watase-do I really need to tell you what she's done? Okay: Alice 19th, Ayashi no Ceres, Fushigi Yuugi, Imadoki, Absolute Boyfriend to name a few. One of the things noted about her is that she creates yaoi doujinshi as a hobby. She was first introduced to BL by one of her fans, and soon fell in love with the Tamahome/Noriko pairing. **

**There were so many great Japanese anime/manga industry guests at Anime Expo that year; I wish I could have gone to it, but I had too much school and other things to worry about at the time. T_T**

**And yes, Elizabeta went to Anime Expo, but she lied to Arthur b/c not all nations know or understand how much of an anime/manga fan she is and how she developed into the fujoshi we know and love today. Amelia was introduced to anime and manga by Alfred years ago and found that she likes it as much as he does (but just different genre). It was Matthew who suggested that they go to Anime Expo that year b/c he wants them all to spend more time together and this was a way to get them both to enthusiastically join him on an outing as a family.**

****Yup. I'm paying tribute to the "Let's Assist the French Economy!" strip (If you haven't seen this one, you have to check it out. It made me ROFL). ;) Go Russia! Give France what he deserved!**

†**That's right. I'm referring to the web comic "Buon San Valentino – Aftermath". I only quoted two of the lines; I hope that I won't get me into trouble. Please don't sue me Hima-papa!**

‡**I don't know if Hima-papa was referring to the Battle of Monte Cassino (a.k.a. Battle for Rome and the Battle for Cassino), when he created the "Buon San Valentino – Aftermath" and referred to the US troops falling back around Valentine's Day, but it sure _is_ a "coincidence" that a withdrawal and attack happened around Valentine's Day in 1944 (IMO the fact that "Buon San Valentino" is Italian for "Happy Valentine's Day" makes it almost seem like America's comment about halting the attack is _not a coincidence at all_) . Therefore, I'm going to allude to it in the story. **

**History lesson time: The Battle of Monte Cassino was a series of 4 battles the Allied troops fought with the intention of getting through the Axis Powers' "Winter line" of defense and lasted from 17 January 1944 to 18 May 1944. The Allies feared that the German 10th army was using the monastery on the mountain peak overlooking the town of Cassino as a defensive base (the truth was that the Germans were hiding out _nearby_ it). They made several attacks in the first battle on the monastery and the area around it, starting on 17 January 1944 and continuing until 11 Feb. 1944 when they were forced to make a withdrawal after a 3-day unsuccessful assault on Monastery Hill and Cassino town. The second battle started on 15 Feb. 1944, when the monastery was destroyed by 1,400 tons of bombs dropped by American bombers (as ordered by Allied command). The bombing resulted in a tactical blunder in the enemies' favor when German paratroopers landed in the ruins; the bombed buildings gave them more places to hide and defend themselves against the Allied troops =_=;. **

**After the bombing, the Allies tried to make an assault on the German troops, and for a brief period, they were successful, but in the end, they were forced to fall back again. The Allied troops had 2 more battles with the German troops and eventually captured Rome; unfortunately, the Allies failed to trap 7 divisions of the 10th army, who then were able to join up with the 14th army and create a strong line of defense at the "Gothic line" north of Florence. Rome fell on 4 June 1944, just two days before the Normandy invasion, but at a high cost (around 55,000 Allied casualties); the Germans also had heavy casualties (around 20,000). As with all of my little "history lessons", this is a very brief summary of what actually happened. Look up "Battle of Monte Cassino" for more in-depth information.**

**British slang/terminology translations:**

**Bugger = interjection meaning "rats." Stand-alone expletive usable in a similar way as "bollocks".**

**crisps = potato chips **

**grocery shop = grocery store**

**shopping trolley = shopping cart**

**trousers = pants**

**RAF officer's service dress uniform = a blue/blue-gray dress uniform for the Royal Air Force that was also sometimes called a "war service dress uniform". The uniform that Arthur wears for this chapter is for officers, so it has the military-style uniform cap (think police cap) instead of the beret/side-style cap . . . FYI the uniform Arthur wears in the anime/manga all throughout WWII is the _Army_ officers service dress uniform. I love how he looks in it, but I also wanted to give him this uniform b/c I _really_ love how it looks (can you blame me? It's the dress uniform that Prince William wears, just to give you an idea of what it looks like * drools * . . . the fancy blue-gray one, that is, not the army green jumpsuit—any search engine will give you plenty of pics ;)). I personally would have preferred that Himaruya had put Arthur in the RAF uniform, but I understand that he was trying to show America's air-support rather than the RAF's (Alfred's uniform is an Air Force uniform, right down to the bomber jacket . . . if my research is correct).**

**hall = foyer/front room (area in home between front door & other rooms)**

**dressing table = dresser**

**poppet = Middle English for a small child, doll, puppet; modern English uses it for sweetheart or darling.**

**garden = backyard**

**And yes, I was making references to Queen Elizabeth I. That last line was what she said to the Parliament tried to bully her into marrying to produce children. After flattering her, they told her she had two choices to continue the wonderful reign she'd established: live forever or marry and produce heirs like her father did. To that, Bess replied that while she appreciated their praise and concern, she felt she was already serving them and God by keeping things the way they were. She removed her ring that she wore at her coronation and showed it to them saying it was a sign of her pledge to her nation. Then she scolded them by stating "****do not upbraid me with miserable lack of Children: for every one of you, and as many as are Englishmen, are Children and Kinsmen to me; of whom if God deprive me not, (which God forbid) I cannot without injury be accounted Barren." She ended her speech by saying that she would die satisfied if "when I shall let my last breath, it be engraved upon my Marble Tomb, Here lieth Elizabeth, which Reigned a Virgin, and died a Virgin." **

**As for the "Robin" she referred to, that was Robert Dudley (his nickname was Robin). He was Elizabeth's childhood friend and a trusted courtier whom she preferred over all others and, for many years, was her heart's choice for marriage. He felt the same for her; his love for her lasted through 2 marriages (both wives died leaving him a widower). He had been quoted as saying that her choosing someone else to marry was "repugnant" to him, even when he wasn't available to her. Robert realized his chances were small of becoming Elizabeth's husband but he still held onto the hope that, although she had told him since she was 8 that she would never marry, she had also told him he was the one she would choose if she ever changed her mind. There are many clues to how close their relationship was: Robert often acted as her unofficial consort (sometimes in her stead), they flirted constantly, they often went riding together, and his quarters at court were the closest to hers. In addition, when Elizabeth thought she was dying of small pox, she commanded that he be given 20,000 pounds a year and made Protector of the realm (both unheard of in those times, and certainly unheard of for someone who was not her official consort).**

**Finally, before you correct me on Bess calling Arthur "thou" and "thee", my research showed that formal English used "you" and "your" when talking to your superiors, strangers, respected personages, your parents, the elderly, or when you wanted to be polite to someone. You also used "you" and "your" when talking to your horse (b/c the horse is a noble animal ^_^). Informal English used "thee", "thou", and "thy" and was appropriate when speaking to your husband (or wife), your close friends, and your children, all of which Bess considered Arthur IMO (note: a person also used this language when talking to servants, non-horse pets and animals, inanimate objects, and God because He is supposed to be intimate to a person . . . and when insulting someone. But I don't think she would have thought of Arthur in any of these roles ~_^). So when she calls him this way, she's being intimate and personal with him, which would definitely account for his confusion about how she felt about him. (If you'd like to see one of the websites I used, feel free to send me a PM ^_^)**

Omake:

*Alfred is flipping through the channels and stops at a soap opera*

Soap Opera Nurse: You hate me; You never said 'I love you' back! *turns away from Soap Opera Doctor*

Soap Opera Doctor: *grabs her arm, spins her around, and hugs her tightly* Silly woman! I was distracted by the emergency in the operating room. Don't say something so important so casually! *They kiss passionately*

Alfred *laughs and nudges Matthew*: What corny lines! No one talks like that in real life.


	18. You, Sir, Have Impeccable Timing

**Ch. 17: You, Sir, Have Impeccable Timing**

"Did Alfred eat any of your snacks?" Amelia asked, pulling Arthur out of his memories.

Arthur looked at her. "Hmm? Sorry?"

She gestured toward the chocolate bar she'd put in the shopping trolley earlier. A grin started to creep onto his face when he noted that it had "magically" multiplied into 5 different brands. "Since I'm replacing the chocolate I borrowed from you this morning," she said, "I thought we might as well get your snacks replaced too." She smiled as she looked at the bars. "I still think English chocolate tastes better than ours."

As if by magic, the girl from all those years ago stood in front of him. "Beth?"

Amelia's eyes widened at the name, and then she smiled. "You remembered."

Before Arthur could react, she pulled him into a hug. He froze, kitten-like, at the sudden embrace. "A-A-Amelia! W-w-we're in the middle of a grocery shop."

"We are?" she asked distractedly, her voice warm and soft.

"Y-y-yes! And people may stare at us!"

"Really." She snuggled closer, not getting the hint at all.

_Bollocks. What to do? If I push her away, she might take it as a rejection, but we're in public and—_Suddenly, the perfume of vanilla and roses floated up and enveloped him, titillating his senses. _That's right, this fragrance . . . also was Beth's . . . why didn't I realize before that she was the same person?_ Arthur's cheeks tingled as he started to return her embrace, his arms seemingly moving on their own.

He no sooner had embraced her than two elderly women rounded the corner of the aisle. "Goodness, young people these days have no sense of propriety," one woman said to her shopping companion as they strolled by.

Arthur released Amelia instantly, stepping away from her. He cleared his throat and looked away. "I-I-I only hugged you back because it seemed awkward not to," he stated, his face acting like it was on fire. "W-w-we need to finish the shopping and get back before your brother sends out those Marines of his." As he looked back at her, their eyes met, and his heart skipped a beat at the mirth he saw in them.

She let out a small laugh. "If you say so Arthur." She turned and pushed the shopping trolley down the aisle, sauntering slowly while randomly grabbing several snacks off the shelves. She turned the corner of the aisle, glanced back at him, and winked.

Arthur stared as she walked around the corner. He came to himself a couple of moments later and hurried after her. Somehow she had managed to vanish completely, and he was forced to look down every aisle for her. By the time he finally found her, she was already at the front of the shop, paying for her items.

"Did you get lost?" Amelia asked when she saw him. "It's not that big of a store." He could see her eyes crinkle as she let out a light giggle.

_It must be an America thing to enjoy teasing me__, _he thought. "Actually I was worried you were the one lost. You don't know your way around my neighborhood, remember?" he teased back.

She let out a laugh and scooped up most of the 12 carrier bags waiting at the checkout counter. The shop assistant's eyes got wide, but she didn't say anything. "I'll let you handle the rest, okay?" Amelia said, nodding at the ones she left behind.

"Of course," Arthur said, grabbing the 5 she left behind. He turned to the shop assistant. "My friend, she—um—she works out a lot," he told her. "Practically an Olympian that one." _I wish she'd be more careful about these things. I shouldn't have to try to explain her strength like that._

The shop assistant raised an eyebrow, got a container of mints out of her pocket, and popped one in her mouth. "If you say so, Arthur. See you later."

"Goodbye Olivia," he replied, grateful she didn't ask any questions about Amelia. "Thank you again."

They walked down the street toward his house for a couple of minutes in silence before he decided to start the conversation. "You went by Beth C. Ross back then, right?"

"Pfft!" Amelia covered her mouth. "Sorry. The USO girls helped me come up with that fake name, and it still makes me laugh when someone says it like that; that's why I had you call me by just my first name."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "I don't understand why it's funny."

She let out a small laugh. "You know: Beth C. Ross . . ." She gestured as if she was trying to coax him to make the connection. Arthur shook his head.

She sighed. "It was kinda a play on words for Betsy Ross."

He scratched his head. "I'm not really familiar with that name."

"No, I guess you wouldn't be," Amelia replied. "The women of American history aren't quite as famous as the men. Betsy Ross is credited with designing the Revolutionary American flag. You know? The one with the 13 stars? I was going by 'America' as a code name while I was traveling with the USO, so when Al told me come up with a new name . . ." She smiled and cocked her head to the side, allowing him to make the connection himself.

Arthur returned her smile now that he could see why she had laughed. "So you came up with something that represented America," he finished for her before letting out a little laugh. She giggled in response.

They walked for another minute in silence, just listening to the birds as they serenaded each other in the trees. "I want you to know that you definitely made what could have been a bad memory into a good one," he said finally. "I had had a pretty rotten day thanks to your brother. You see, Alfred had told a messenger to ask me for the chocolate I gave you so that he could pull another one of his stupid jokes."

Amelia snickered. Arthur frowned, slightly irritated at her reaction.

"I'm not laughing at you; I promise," she said when she saw his expression. "It's just I know the whole story behind that."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Y'see, the day that happened, I had come by to visit Al to tell him about my new name and ask him if it would be all right for the USO gals to hold a Valentine's Day dance for the soldiers. He seemed in a really bad mood and when I asked him about it, he grumbled to me something like 'Stupid England won't give me any chocolate for Valentine's Day' just as a messenger from your office had walked up. Al had already eaten all his K-ration chocolates*****, and when he'd asked some of the locals for English chocolate, they'd refused to give it to him because they had been told not to share rations with American soldiers. I remember the messenger looked back and forth between us and then asked if there were any _**other**_ messages that Al wanted to send. My brother finally noticed him and gave the message about the troops having to fall back in Italy."

Arthur blinked. "Wait, so that whole wanting-chocolate-from-me business—"

"Was a misunderstanding," Amelia finished for him.

"I feel a little foolish now about how I reacted," he replied.

"You shouldn't," she said. "It was my brother who messed up the message by complaining so loudly about the chocolate."

"But if he didn't have any chocolate, why did he have a bucket full of them when I brought mine?" Arthur asked.

"Oh that. Well, some of the USO girls had developed crushes on Al and asked me why he was upset," she continued. "When I told them, they gave him their chocolate hoping he would dance with them that evening. Then, one of them told me that after she'd given candy to him, she'd seen him making a pass at some London girl and that he was giving _her_ several of the bars the girls had just given _him_."

"So the reason he acted like he didn't know why I was bringing him some—"

"Was because he really didn't know why," Amelia concluded. "After you stormed out with your chocolate bar, I came by to scold him for taking advantage of my girlfriends. He mentioned that you'd seemed upset that he didn't share any of his candy with you. And that's when we met again."

She looked up into the sky and sighed. "That was one of the best nights of my life."

Arthur thought again of that evening and of the memento he'd kept from that dance all those years ago. "Remind me to return your locket when we get back home."

She stopped and turned toward him. "My locket?"

Arthur stopped walking as well. "You were wearing a locket that night, and it fell off when Alfred rushed you out of the ballroom to go back to the States," he stated. "I meant to give it back to Alfred to give to you, but I k-k-kept forgetting." He glanced away from her. The last part was a lie. He'd met with Alfred numerous times since that evening but never bothered to broach the subject ever again. Then, during the last part of the war and long after it had ended, every time he caught himself thinking about Beth and that night, he would go to the dressing table in his bedroom, pull out the locket, and stare at the loving couple in the photo, torturing his heart like some sort of masochist. As if he was trying to push those painful memories away, he started walking again and she quickly fell into step with him.

"I remember that I had to pack so fast and rush back home that I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye to anyone. I thought I'd lost that locket somewhere in the chaos," Amelia said. "I must have searched the entire plane three times and my bags more times than I can remember." She looked down at the spot where the locket would have hung around her neck. Suddenly her eyes got wide, and she looked at him. "Wait. You didn't open it and look at the photo, did you?"

"W-wh-why should that matter?" Arthur asked, feeling like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't have been doing.

Amelia looked down at the pavement. "It's just that it had an embarrassing photo in it."

"You mean the one where you and your brother look like you're lovers?" Arthur teased.

"Auuggghhh! I knew that photo would come back to haunt me!" she said. "Al and I had it taken so that I wouldn't be lonely while he was away in Europe and the Pacific. I didn't think we had been overly-affectionate in our poses until one of the USO girls got nosy and peeked at it. She asked me if Al was my fiancé and no amount of protesting that he was my brother could convince her otherwise."

"Well, your brother implied as much to me," he said. "I think he . . . saw us together and decided it would be better for me to think he was in a type of relationship with you that most nations avoid with non-nations than to let me continue to—" Arthur's face suddenly grew hot and his heart started pounding. A nervousness filled his stomach making it impossible to voice the next part.

She glanced at him, eyebrows raised. "Continue to what?"

"There's a shortcut ahead that takes a whole 5 minutes off the walk," he said, avoiding her gaze. "Come. I'll show you." He picked up speed and turned down a dirt-paved alleyway that had been created by dozens of residents walking between some houses' gardens.

"Arthur, wait. 'Continue to' _**what**__?_" She picked up her speed as well. "Arthur!"

He had already taken a few steps into the alley when Amelia dashed into it, grabbing his hand. "What were you saying a moment ago? 'Continue to' what?" she asked again.

Arthur grit his teeth. "It's not that important. Why don't you just drop it already? !" he snapped as he jerked his hand away from her grip, causing her to stumble forward and lose her balance. She landed on her knees with a loud "Thump", and dust flew up from the impact. A potato escaped out of one of her bags and rolled about a meter away from her.

A flock of sparrows scattered into the air, chirping as they fluttered away from the disturbance. A lump formed in his throat when he realized he'd caused that commotion. Amelia didn't bother to get up or scoop up the other items that had also spilled out of her bag; she just knelt in the dirt and looked straight ahead as if she had been nailed to the alleyway.

Arthur's heart dropped to his feet. "I'm sorry." He hurried over to her and reached out to help her up. "I didn't mean to—"

Without looking at him, she smacked his hand away. "I'm fine." She collected the spilled items, stood up and walked over to the fugitive potato, picked it up, and put it back in the bag. "Excuse me. I've got dinner to make." She started walking down the alleyway towards the other side, limping slightly as she went.

Arthur hurried after her, tripping over the uneven ground of the alleyway. He caught her hand, which was still clutching several of the carrier bags. "Wait. I wasn't trying to hurt you."

She stopped walking but didn't turn around.

"Amelia. Please. Say something." He tried to squeeze her hand but only ended up making the bags jiggle.

Amelia sniffed. "I know you weren't trying to hurt me." She lifted her free hand and wiped her face. "Y'know, the only reason I came over here was to confess to you, not to help Al with his report. I knew I had a chance of being rejected. I knew it. That's why I tried to play it casual, but you didn't get it."

She drew in a stuttered breath and then coughed. She sniffed again. "So when you just left the library . . . when you didn't say _anything_ after I finally told you that I loved you," she said, her voice cracking slightly. She paused and sniffed loudly. "I thought I had made you feel awkward, that you didn't feel the same way about me and you didn't know how to respond." She gasped in another breath. "I was going to run home. I was. But then Al texted me, and I realized I was being a coward, not a hero. A hero would pretend like nothing was wrong and hope for the best final result."

Amelia glanced over her shoulder; tears had run lines across the dust that had covered her cheeks. Arthur's heart ached at the sight. She quickly looked away and wiped her face again. "I thought I was getting signs that you were reciprocating my feelings," she continued, "but it's obvious now that you just 'didn't want to hurt me' all those times. I'm sorry I bothered you. I'll make dinner tonight and then find a way back home tomorrow. Al doesn't need me here, so there's no reason to stay."

"Blast it, you silly girl! You are just like your brother: jumping to the wrong conclusions." He dropped the bags he was carrying, grabbed her shoulders, spun her around, and caught her up in his arms. "Don't say something so important so casually! I didn't realize what you had said until _after_ I had left the room."

An ache Arthur had felt earlier in the grocery shop completely engulfed him. He pulled her in closer and found that it settled down a little when he did. His mind reeled at how soft she was and how wonderful it was to hold her in his arms; he relished in her intoxicating warmth and the smell of her hair and skin. "I think that when Alfred saw us together at that dance, he decided to imply that he was in a relationship with you so that I wouldn't _continue_ to want to be with you, wouldn't _continue_ to care about you, and wouldn't _continue_ to fall for a non-nation human even though I knew better."

Amelia dropped her bags and returned the embrace. "I love you, Arthur! I love you _**so**_ _**much**_," she sobbed into his shoulder as she clung to him. "I have loved you for a long time, maybe even before 1944, but I've only known that's what it was after that time in the bomb shelter all those years ago. I was so _**clueless**_ about my own feelings that my USO girlfriends had to clear up that my heart was pounding because of _you_, not because of a heart attack."

Arthur wanted to reply, to say something in return, but fear caused him to hesitate. Every time he'd tried to be Alfred's friend, he'd been rejected, teased; every time he'd opened his heart to someone else, that person had left him, abandoned him, hated him. He pulled slightly away, and she responded in kind.

When they made eye-contact, his mouth suddenly went dry and his stomach seemed to be filled with tiny acrobats. He swallowed, and his heart sped up when she didn't look away. Arthur opened his mouth to try again to say what was in his heart, but the fears of abandonment and rejection caught the words in his throat. _Blast it! If I can't say it, then I'll just show it._

Resolve made, he brushed her bangs away from her eyes. Gently, hesitantly, he touched her wet cheeks and wiped away her tears. His own eyes stung when he realized, happy or sad, he was the cause of those tears and that he never wanted them to be sad tears _ever_ again. "Please don't cry," he said. He let his fingertips trail down her cheek, softly caressing her skin as he did. She smiled hesitantly, her cheeks crimsoning in response to the touch. His fingers trembled at the warmth.

Hands shaking, he cupped her face and tilted it up towards his before leaning in. Amelia closed her eyes; a stray tear trailed down her cheek. Arthur delicately touched his lips to her skin to catch it, and they tingled at the contact. She smiled slightly and remained still, allowing him the moment. He moved a hand away from her face to touch the curve of her neck and caress her hair, sweeping some of it behind her ear with his fingers. He leaned towards her other cheek and kissed it also.

Amelia moved slightly away from him and opened her eyes to gaze into his. She reached up and touched his hand with hers, stroking it with her thumb and sending a jolt of electricity through him. The warmth from the contact seemed to excite every nerve in his hand and arm and that sensation flooded throughout the rest of his body. He could hear his heart thundering in his ears, positive she could hear it too.

All at once, the air seemed to be filled with a mixture of anxious nervousness and aching desire. Arthur recognized that desire from this morning. This time, though, he gave into that impulse, threading his fingers through her hair once again and pulling her face closer to his.

He leaned in, hovering over her mouth, reveling in the thrill of expectation and how fast it made his heart beat, how alive it made him feel. Amelia closed the distance between them, their lips meeting halfway, simply resting against each other gently. Tenderly. A warm tingle started in his cheeks and flowed all the way down to his toes.

They parted for a moment, their eyes meeting briefly, before their lips met again. Heart pounding, Arthur pressed his lips to hers, his breathing deepening and his head spinning, leaving him light-headed. Almost subconsciously, he wrapped his arm around her waist, his hand resting in the small of her back. As the kiss intensified, he pulled her body even closer to his.

Amelia responded by standing on her tiptoes, leaning up into him as if the nonexistent distance between them was too much to bear. She moved her hands from where they were resting at his waist and touched his face. As if she was trying to memorize him and this moment, she trailed her fingertips across his cheeks, moving down to trace along his jawline and his neck. Wrapping her arms around him, her hands clutched at his shoulders, fingertips lightly caressing the material of his suit jacket and causing an exhilarating shiver to flow through his entire body. They parted again, long enough to suck in a lungful of the crisp afternoon air, before kissing again, this one urgent and hungry, their lips moving against each other roughly as if making up for lost time.

Amelia pulled away from the kiss and gasped. Arthur smiled when he realized it was because she'd forgotten to breathe. He allowed her a couple of moments to drink in a few lungfuls of air, and then he leaned in to continue.

"W-w-we shouldn't make out in public," she said before he could reach her lips. She ducked down her head, burying it in his chest. He could see that the pink had traveled all the way to her ears.

Arthur glanced around the alley. As far as he could tell, there were no building or house windows facing where they were standing. He noticed a robin sitting on a fence, preening itself. It looked at them and chirped. "I don't think that cheeky little bugger over there minds what we're doing," he said, lightly touching his lips to her cheek. He touched her chin and tipped her face up towards his.

He gazed into her blue-gray eyes and a smile crossed his lips; he leaned in to give her a peck on the lips, which she happily returned. "Besides," he continued. "I've wanted to do this since this morning—no—wait, that's not quite accurate." He took a moment to consider why he thought that way, and he was able to give the answer almost instantly: "Actually, I have wanted to do this since that dance in 1944." Vocalizing those words brought back the desire from before, making him feel giddy and drunk.

Amelia's eyes widened. "Does that mean that you—" Arthur covered her mouth with his before she could finish.

She earnestly returned his affection for a moment before pulling away slightly and giggling. "Not that I mind, but you didn't let me fin—" He continued the kiss, not letting her resist the gravity that seemed to be pulling them together. Amelia pulled just far enough away that the heat from her lips ghosted against his as she panted for breath. "Are you trying to keep me from talking?"

Arthur glanced at her. She looked as besotted as he felt. "Not really, but it's a side effect of my wanting to do this," Arthur replied, pecking her on her lips and then her nose. "Are you saying you don't want me to continue?" Mirth bubbled up inside him; he decided to tease her a little by moving his lips a little closer to hers but not close enough to make any contact.

"No. I'm not saying that at all," she said breathlessly, tangling her fingers in his hair and pulling him into a kiss with a renewed urgency, as if she was trying to melt into him. Her aggressiveness surprised him only for a moment before he responded to it by wrapping his arms around her waist and lifting her up on her tiptoes again as they continued for several minutes.

Each time their lips touched, his entire body grew hotter and hotter, the heat pooling everywhere their bodies touched, their hearts beating in time with each other. When they finally parted, he found that Amelia wasn't the only one who needed to remember how to breathe again. He gently lowered her to the ground until she found her footing while he drank in lungfuls of air.

He gazed at her, certain her flushed face was a mirror image of his own; she gasped deeply and rapidly as she slowly pulled her hands from behind his shoulders and down his arms. Amelia leaned up against his shoulder. "Wow," she said, sighing deeply.

"Yeah," Arthur replied, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and enjoying the warmth their closeness created. _I want time to stop, right here, right now__._

After a couple of minutes of their savoring the embrace, he heard Amelia sigh again. "We probably should get going before Al's stomach finds us," she said. She looked down at the bags. "We're going to have to buy more eggs later. You were the one carrying them."

"That will only be necessary if most of them are broken," Arthur countered.

She laughed, slowly pushing herself out of his arms. "If you are fine with it, then so am I." She knelt down to pick up the bags she had been carrying, and Arthur decided to follow her lead. She looked up at him as she looped her hands in the bags' handles. He smiled, leaned over, and gave her a little smooch on the mouth.

She stared at him, her mouth hanging slightly open at the unexpected token of affection.

"Your fault," Arthur said, his face deadpanned, "your face was too close to mine."

She let out a scoff that sounded more like a laugh. "A likely excuse."

"Perhaps," he conceded with a slight smile and a wink. He stood up, put all of his bags in one hand and held out the other. "Shall we continue home?"

Amelia stared at his hand, and her cheeks resumed the rosy color they had bloomed several times already.

His heart skipped a beat at her possible rejection of his gesture. "I don't want you to get lost," Arthur said, a tingling and warmth filling his cheeks.

She laughed at his using her own words to flirt. "Al never told me how funny you were." She put of all her bags into one hand and grabbed his hand with her other hand.

"I think 'witty' might be a better word," he stated. "He seems to deliberately irritate the hell out of me, so I never talk this way with him."

"I feel really privileged now," she said with a smile.

A palatable nervousness filled the air as they walked to the end of the alley, neither of them speaking to the other. "Go to the left," he directed when she stopped and looked both ways down the pavement.

When they started walking again, Arthur glanced down at their hands. They weren't exactly how he wanted them to be_. _He adjusted his hand by interlaced his fingers with hers. His body's reaction was instantaneous: the tingling and warmth spread from his cheeks to his entire face, and he became dizzy and light-headed.

"You move really fast, Mr. Kirkland," Amelia teased, playfully glancing over at him.

"I can't help it," he said. "I'm so comfortable with you that it's almost surreal. I mean, even though I've technically only known you for one whole day, it seems like it's been years—Ah! I didn't mean that like it was a bad thing."

Amelia laughed. "I didn't take it that way." She gazed at him and smiled. "I love you, Arthur." She pulled their hands up to her mouth and smooched the top of his hand before lowering their hands again. "Okay. Let's get this Mountain Man Stew home and started." She picked up her pace a little and Arthur matched it.

"Mountain Man Stew?"

"It's something I learned from a friend in the Rocky Mountain region of the United States, and it tastes a lot better than it sounds like it would taste," she said, winking at him.

When they finally arrived at Arthur's home, Amelia released his hand before walking up to the door. She turned around when she reached it. "I think we should wait until Al's stomach is full before he sees or hears about anything that has gone on between us," she said.

Arthur thought about Mexico and nodded. "Yes. I think that's a proper suggestion. A full stomach will slow him down; it'll give me a fighting chance to get away."

She laughed at his witticism as she entered the house and headed for the kitchen. He followed her into the room. She was setting her bags on top on the workspace he usually used for preparing food. Arthur set the bags he was holding next to the others.

"So until we talk to Al, we've got to try to play it casual, okay?" Amelia said, stepping closer to him. She held out her hand as if she wanted to shake hands with him. When he reached out to comply, she pulled her hand back a little and hesitated, staring at their two hands. He glanced down to see what had caught her attention so intensely.

Instead of clasping hands with him, she reached out and stroked her fingertips across his palm and down his fingers. The action sent a thousand tingles all over. He caught her fingers before they left his and held onto them. Then, as if it was the most natural thing to do in the world, he reached down and took hold of her other hand, also only by her fingers. He looked up at her, and she returned the look. When they made eye contact, he smiled at her and began to caress her fingers and palm with his fingertips, occasionally stopping to brush his thumbs over the tops of her hands. She smiled and responded in kind.

Her smile faded into a serious expression when they continued to maintain eye contact. The atmosphere around them quickly became saturated with an intense anxiousness; without a word, Arthur leaned in, and they softly kissed one more time.

"We really _should_ stop doing this, or Al will catch us before we have a chance to tell him," Amelia said in a quiet tone, her eyes dazed and warm. She let out a small laugh. "You're making me regret that we didn't walk slower or stay in that alley longer than we did." She let go of his hands just as the door to the dining room opened.

"You found her Artie!" Alfred said as he swung the door all the way open. "I was really starting to get hungry; glad the food—er—I mean, you two made it back safely." He glanced at them both and then stared at Amelia. "You feeling okay, Sis?"

"Y-y-yes. Why?" she said.

"Your face is all flushed," Alfred replied, walking over to her. He put a hand on her forehead and his other hand on his forehead and leaned their faces together. "Hmm. Seems normal."

She pulled her face away from his. "I-I-I'll bet it's the colder temperatures. I'm not used to them."

_**Please** accept that explanation_, Arthur thought as he suddenly became very interested in the pattern on the kitchen floor's rug.

"Yeah. It does take some getting used to," Alfred stated. "Whelp! I'll let you get started on dinner. Artie, don't you dare cook anything. Ames can handle it on her own."

Arthur let out a sound of indignation. "What if I only help by preparing the vegetables? Will that be allowed?"

Alfred shrugged. "I guess. But be careful with your knives around Amelia; I don't know if my insurance is accepted at your hospitals here."

"Go watch some cricket and leave us alone, you berk," Arthur said, pushing him out the door.

Alfred laughed. "Okay, okay."

Arthur turned around and caught Amelia smiling at him.

"You guys are pretty good friends, huh?" she said.

He raised an eyebrow. "What on earth gave you that idea?"

"It's obvious—well, it seems obvious to me—I remember when we were younger, Al would go on and on about how tasty your fish and chips were. It's one of the first things he insisted that I learn how to make," she said with a laugh. Embarrassment at the compliment warmed his face.

She ruminated over the memory for a moment. "It took years to get the burnt smell out of the kitchen walls." She glanced behind Arthur. "Thanks to you, Mattie, I finally learned how to do it right."

Arthur turned around to see Matthew standing almost directly to his left, so closely that it made him jump a little._ I didn't even hear him enter the room._

"I came in to help when I heard Alfred in here, but it looks like Arthur is going to be your assistant, eh?" Matthew's eyes sparkled mischievously as he looked back and forth between them.

"You could set the table," Amelia suggested, grabbing her apron and putting it on. "Arthur, where do you keep your soup bowls?"

"Oh, um, they're in the cabinet in the dining room," he said, moving towards the door to the dining room.

Matthew held up his hand and grinned. "I think I'll be able to find them just fine. Thanks." He walked out the door, leaving Arthur to stare at it.

The room filled with the sound of something being dumped into a sink. Arthur turned back to see Amelia take a paring knife out of her "essentials bag" and start peeling a potato. She looked over at him and smiled. His heart pounded in response.

"Thanks for helping out, Arthur. It'll cut my preparation time in half. Could you wash, peel, and cut up the carrots?" she asked.

He nodded. "It'll be my pleasure. I actually enjoy cooking." He took off his suit jacket and set it aside, away from the food. He rolled up his shirt sleeves, grabbed the carrots out of the bag, and selected a peeler out of the knife drawer. He decided to use the sink next to the one she was using for depositing the potato peels.

"You must think I'm odd, being a man and fond of cooking," he said, embarrassed that she didn't reply to his first comment.

She finished peeling and started to cut up the potatoes into large chunks. "Nope. I don't. In fact, I think it's kinda _hot_," she said, using the same tone of voice she'd used that morning.+

Arthur glanced over at her._ Is she teasing me? Or flirting with me? It's hard to tell with this girl. _He noticed that she peeked from behind her bangs at him and winked. He also noticed that the proximity of the sinks made their arms brush against each other every now and then as they worked . . . that, and that she smelled fantastic.

Giddy from the exhilarating sensations this caused, Arthur spontaneously dropped the peeler and carrot he was holding and hugged Amelia from behind, wrapping his arms around her waist. He nuzzled his cheek against her hair and drank in the seductive aroma that floated up from it.

She gasped and dropped her paring knife and the potato she was cutting into the sink. "Art—"

"Roses . . ." he mumbled distractedly, interrupting her.

She stroked her fingertips along his arms, tickling the skin and sending an electrical pulse throughout his whole body. "Y-y-yeah. Prairie roses are a native flower in the United States**†**," she said, "so it's one of my natural scents."

"Your natural scents?" Arthur found himself too light-headed to really understand what she was saying.

"Yeah. I've been told my friends who hug me that I either smell like prairie roses or vanilla, which makes sense since they're both indigenous to North America,**†**" Amelia stated. "I've noticed that Al either smells like chocolate or a sweet gum tree. After I told him that, he decided that he didn't like being told he smells 'sweet', and he tries to cover it up with the scent of his leather jacket or men's cologne.**†**"

She flicked her bangs out of her eyes with a quick toss of her head, and the motion moved her hair as well, exposing her neck and shoulder. Arthur stared at the now naked skin of her neck mere centimeters from his face.

"I've tried to tell him a million times that I think he smells more like the resin than the rest of the tree and that it's a very manly smell**†**, but he just blows me off because I'm his sister and not a good judge of such things," she rambled on. She turned her head slightly to take a side-glance at him but quickly turned away again with a blush. "Now_ your_ scent is amazing. Sometimes it's like a musky rose, but most of the time the fragrance is like a deep forest after rain, at least, that's what it smells like to me. I remember noticing it the first time you hugged me back in—" She stopped short when Arthur nuzzled against her shoulder and planted a kiss on it. He trailed several more up her neckline and then kissed her neck just under her ear. She let out a gasp. "Arthur, what are you doing?" she said, panting a little.

Arthur smiled at her reaction. "Your fault. Your bare neck and all that talk of sweet things made you too irresistible. Why? Am I distracting you?" he asked, lightly touching his lips to her neck again.

She stuttered out a breath, trying to control her reactions. "No . . . not . . . at all . . . I'm . . . completely focused."

"I see. Speaking of sweet things, I remember your hair smelling like chocolate chip cookies this morning," he said, brushing his lips against her hair and then back down on her neck.

Amelia gasped in reaction, seemingly unable to say anything while he was bestowing his tokens of affection on her. Arthur smiled, satisfied by her response as he nuzzled his cheek against her hair. She leaned against him.

"Well, that's because Al and Mattie wanted to eat cookies on the way here," she said finally, "so I got up a few hours before our flight was scheduled to leave and made—" She turned to look at him, and her cheeks crimsoned deeper. Their faces and lips were so close that Arthur recognized the now-familiar nervous clutch in his chest and overpowering urge to close the distance between them and capture her mouth with his. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. He closed his eyes and leaned in towards her lips.

"Hey Artie! You got anything good to snack on while I wait for dinner? I'm starving," Alfred said as he barged through the door to the kitchen.

Amelia raised her head so quickly that she almost clocked Arthur in the nose. He froze and turned to look at Alfred. His face became hot as the other nation took in the sight of him embracing Amelia from behind.

Alfred stared at the couple, and his right hand instinctively balled into a fist. "What's going on in here?" he asked finally, furrowing his eyebrows.

* * *

**A/N**

**If the last chapter didn't make up for the super-long wait between updates, I'm almost certain this one should do the trick X3 . . . if not, then I still need more practice on my kissing/making out scenes . . . **

***K-ration chocolate was better tasting and more like the commercially produced Hershey bars of the time. If you couldn't get K-ration chocolate, you were stuck with D-Ration or "Tropical" bars, which were detested by soldiers and all who ate them. D-ration bars were hard to chew and described by some as "tasting no better than a boiled potato". Therefore it's only natural that Alfred would want to use the K-ration chocolate instead to impress a lady. Only England wouldn't be able to tell if a chocolate tasted nasty or not; his people, on the other hand, have much better taste-buds than he does ;) (also the British citizens really _were_ told not to share their rations).**

**+This is a reference to her quoting/mimicking the character "Sister" from _Red vs. Blue_ web series in Ch. 2. (I must remind you that Amelia only pretends to _talk_ like Sister; she would never _act_ like Sister . . . she isn't like that).**

†**_Rosa arkansana__,_ a.k.a. the Prairie Rose, grows on dry hills and prairies. It is native to 21 states and Canada in Zone 4 and higher and it is threatened and endangered in the State of Ohio. Its flowers are single, range from pale pink to red. _Rosa arkansana var. suffulta_ is a low-growing (6 to 18 inches), spreading prickly shrub. It is native to Arkansas, Texas, New Mexico, and New York. The prairie rose produces a heady rose scent. **

†**Vanilla really did originate in America, but more specifically in Mesoamerica. The vanilla Amelia claims is the _V. Pompona_ (sometimes called Mexican vanilla). There are 3 major types of vanilla grown today: _Vanilla Planifolia (syn. V. fragrans_) grown on Madagascar, Réunion, and other tropical areas along the Indian Ocean; _V. Tahitensis_ grown in the South Pacific; and _V. Pompona_, which is found in the West Indies, Central, and South America. Most of the world's vanilla comes from the Madagascar vanilla (more commonly known as bourbon vanilla). It is second only to saffron as the world's most expensive spice b/c making it is so labor-intensive. **

†**_Liquidambar styraciflua__,_ a.k.a. sweet gum tree, is a North American tree that has prickly spherical fruit clusters and fragrant sap. Sweet gum trees are aromatic, which means they smell good (crushing a leaf and smelling it can give you a good idea of this). While the tree is mainly used for ornamental and commercial hardwood purposes, its resin (sometimes called liquid amber or copalm balsam) has been used for fragrance purposes along with other commercial uses. The golden-honey colored resin has been said to have a sweet, earthy scent and been compared to ambergris, which we all know has been mostly known for its use in creating perfume and has fragrance much like musk. **

†**Although chocolate (a raw or processed food produced from the seed of the tropical Theobroma cacao tree) originated in the Americas, 60% of cacao is now produced in West Africa, with the rest still grown in Mexico, Central and South America as well as several tropical islands and countries. Its earliest documented use is around 1100 BC. Chocolate as many know it was created by Europeans, who added sugar and milk to it and used it primarily for sweets (not as currency or for religious and royal purposes like the Mesoamerican people did).**

**British slang/terminology translations:**

**grocery shop = grocery store**

**shopping trolley = shopping cart**

**shop assistant = cashier, clerk, etc.**

**carrier bags = shopping bags**

**gardens = backyards (believe it or not)**

**pavement = sidewalk**

**berk = idiotic jerk**

Omake:

Meanwhile in the lounge, Matthew is watching TV, intent on the forward of Canada's soccer team making the goal, which he does.

Matthew: Yes, finally! * turns to where Alfred should have been sitting * You owe me 50 bucks, Al. *stares at the empty space where Alfred had been, then looks at the door * Um . . . where . . .

* remembers what Alfred had said before leaving *: _Yeah, yeah, sure they're going to win. Soccer's stupid and boring, dude, except when ladies like Mia Hamm, Ho__pe Solo, and Alex Morgan play . . . Anyways we're outta snacks . . . be back in a minute, Bra._

Matthew: * thinks for a moment what could be taking so long, and then realizes *: Ah nuts! * jumps up and dashes toward the kitchen *


End file.
